


a glass essay

by fairbanks



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Arranged Marriage, Isolation, M/M, Manipulation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-10
Updated: 2020-05-20
Packaged: 2020-08-14 03:28:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 63,680
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20185513
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fairbanks/pseuds/fairbanks
Summary: Right out of university Jon's run out of time to run from the Web. The only way he knows to escape one domain is to give yourself to another, and he's always been good at being alone.He really wasn't imagining the Lukas family would take him in at all, let alone arrange him to marry some smarmy ass named Peter Lukas.





	1. one

**Author's Note:**

> my artist needs an extension so the art will be linked when they finish
> 
> also the au here is a world more shaped by the domains, so it'd be easier for someone like Jon to find a trail if he looked closely enough.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> problems.

This could very well be the last day of Jon’s life.

If he were to picture his last moments (which he did with alarming frequency) they were always in the maws of spiders. Spiders wrapped their victims up in thin web before injecting them with enzymes to liquify the living, twitching bundle. Their meat and bones and whatever else broke down, leaving nothing but a glorified puddle for the spider to suck up. That is what happened to that bully years ago, no doubt. That is what could happen to Jon, if caught. If his fate at spider’s whims wasn’t even worse.

His last moments weren’t meant for a refined old parlor, sitting on an antique chair worth more than he ever was. The air smells of dust though there is no dust, no shadows, just long, lonely minutes crawling by. Each tick of the second hand in the old grandfather clock makes Jon feel the world is falling away and there’s him, only him, only ever him.

He’d expect nothing less from the Lukas family home. This where they led him when knocked on Moorland’s door, sat him down and told him to wait. And wait.

There is a creak in the hall that makes him jump, then the figure of the grim servant who answered the door is standing too close behind his chair. There’s no feeling of invasion, that discomfort Jon always felt when someone got too close. It’s the same as standing next to furniture, wooden and soulless, set dressing with human skin. He swallows and stands when the living furniture in the guise of a servant gestures to follow.

The halls echo with absence, bring to mind silent nights in his childhood home, his grandmother there but never really present with him, often too lost in her losses. Moorland House is far grander than anything he’s lived in or even seen before though, oozing old money from its pores, quiet and absolute and living in a horrifying way. The paintings on the wall sit in ostentatious frames and every single work is a long, lone figure, whether they be on an isolated pier or in the center of a faceless crowd.

The hall gives way to study eventually, dark and wooden, smelling of dusty smoke. The pressure here is nearly unbearable, makes Jon close his eyes tight and breath a moment before he adjusts enough to fix his gaze on the man sitting at the grand dark oak desk. The man gesturing for him to sit.

Jon does, quick and rabbit jitters to his nerves, studying the silent man before him. He’s broad shouldered, seems thick around the middle and is so pale Jon thinks he must glow in a dim room. His suit is stark black against that skin and his eyes are moats around an empty castle, a gate that leads to nothing. Hollow is the truest word to describe this man, that is the first thing Jon decides about Nathaniel Lukas. 

“Hello I- I’m Jonathan Sims,” Jon tries when the silence gets too boisterous, ringing painfully in his ears. “I tried sending ah- well, messages, emails, calls.”

“And then you showed up at my doorstep,” Nathaniel concludes, voice one that echoes quietly. 

Jon swallows and nods, feeling the end of his life creepingly close again. “I did my research. Honestly I was surprised I was even let through the gate.” When the silence stretches again Jon fidgets and adds, “I’ll be more surprised if I’m let back out.”

He has only a moment to curse his nerves and tongue before Nathaniel’s reaction strikes, a mere quirk of the brows one could miss if they blinked. If he’s amused or annoyed Jon can’t say, if he finds Jon an interesting prospect or a waste of time is even harder to tell. If anything Nathaniel Lukas gives the impression of a man who looked to his feelings one day and found them a troublesome growth he promptly choked until they shrivelled into nothing but dust hung under his skin.

“It’s rare someone seeks us out understanding our proclivities. It’s rarer still they press until they find their way here despite knowing the fate that could await them. Those are the actions of a desperate man, Mr. Sims. A hunted one.”

For a terrifying moment Jon thinks he’ll have to explain, have to lay out the whole sorry story line of his life. Yes Mr. Lukas, the power I’ve seen most typically called the Web marked me young, snared me then lost me then followed me ever since. Yes, I know what they are, I know what you are, as much as one can with the resources I had, with the ‘luck’ I had in finding those who knew it all first hand. Yes, they’re closing in, the spiders, they’re breathing down my neck. I just barely managed to graduate Uni with my sanity and skin. I just barely made it here.

Yes, I know I’m jumping from the frying pan to the fire. I know I’m on the doorstep of monsters, offering my neck and hoping whatever bits of me remain after you’re all through will be more and better than what the spiders would make of me.

The moment passes with a tap of Nathaniel’s pen. “I’ve read your messages and made basic inquiries. You’re a refugee, of sorts. Would you say that’s correct?”

“As correct as anything else,” Jon answers, sucks in a breath and tries to be frank despite every time being frank hurt him. “I didn’t have many other choices. I considered the People’s Church, or- I heard of a man named Fairchild who may be… helpful. I have absolutely no interest in the Lightless Flame and rather hope they’re all tall tales,” he explains, and there’s the faintest shift in Nathaniel’s expression that tells him no, they are not tall tales. 

He continues, steadfast. “I’ve been told the Institute is too passive to help me, and I- I need help. I know how to be alone.”

It takes a great deal of resolve to look up at Nathaniel Lukas’ face when that little spiel is done, to his eyes that reveal nothing. “I can work for you,” Jon pushes, stubborn and straight backed, “At this house or elsewhere. You know my credentials. I only ask two things.”

Nathaniel head tilts in a way Jon thinks might be curiosity. “Two things,” he repeats, and Jon tries not to squirm.

“Protection from the Web, of course. At least as much as any in your… _domain _are offered.” The easy clause, the one that’s nonnegotiable because why else would he be here? The second is what has Jon’s fingers clench in his lap. “And I don’t want to hurt anyone.”

This time Nathaniel’s brow lifts, an elegant curve of his brow as Jon rushes to clarify. “I know _sacrifices_ are made, though I won’t pretend to know any details of how your family works. If there’s a price I’ll pay it, I just- I’ll pay it, not another.”

It makes Jon feel small, childish and naive even as he stubbornly keeps his head up and gaze as steady as he could manage- which is to say not very steady against Nathaniel Lukas’ aching emptiness. In his head it sounded so much more resolute and reasonable, yet the minute the words ‘I don’t want to hurt anyone’ passed his lips he swore he was a child again, sitting before the teacher after class to explain his ‘attitude.’ Here there’s no sympathy for the young or the naive, here he’s merely an uppity little man in so far over his head he swears he hasn’t seen the sun in years.

“How do you imagine you’ll live, if I were to agree with your terms?” Nathaniel asks him, and Jon only has it in him to answer in complete sincerity.

“Lonely,” he says, eyes shifting to the great window behind Nathaniel and the fog beyond it, dotting out everything he can see. “Lonely and tired.”

The silence that stretches plants itself in his skin. He looks at Nathaniel’s ear rather than his eyes and waits, feels like he’s rotting in the corner of some place too far away to be heard from, no matter how he screamed.

Eventually Nathaniel Lukas shifts, offering his hand. “I believe I have a place for you, Mr. Sims.”

His skin is so cold Jon shudders, his short lived relief crushed under the knowledge his soul’s been sold away.

\---

The entire drive over to Moorland House Jon turned it over in his head, everything that brought him this far. There wasn’t much else to be done in the backseat of a cab he could barely afford, watching the scenery get more and more fog choked. He could have taken a series of buses, maybe even begged Georgie for a ride after avoiding her for weeks, but in the end the cab seemed the best finalizer. By the time he made it to Moorland he wouldn’t have enough fare to get back, and all he could do is find his way in by whatever means necessary. There would be no return trips, no place for his nerves to run to.

Of course that was exactly the kind of drama that seemed stupid in retrospect, especially over halfway there and struck by the thought of what if they weren’t home, or turned him away at the gate or -- well, it didn’t matter. The ticking clock at his back told him he didn’t have much time left anyway.

In the back of the cab it was easiest to go back down that old, familiar route of trying to think of what he could have done differently. After Mr. Spider he couldn’t help but dig long and hard, accounts of strange books and spiders and impossible creatures that should not be. It was so hard to sift through the nonsense but there was a through line, a presence and influence that creeped through what accounts he could dig up online. 

It gave him information and nightmares in turn, a new dread every time he saw a spider crawling up the wall of his room. It wasn’t until high school that one spider became two, and two became many that always scurried away when others turned to look. Not for him, they never ran from him, just watched with what Jon thought must be malice but felt more like patience. That frightened him more.

It also wasn’t until high school that he started taking research to more than just scrounging forums and strange accounts on long dead sites. Willful ignorance and skepticism were failing him, and he dared to reach out and look for someone he could actually ask all his burning questions. Unsurprisingly his personality didn’t make that easy, but his persistence did eventually lead to something, and that something was a very hard man named Dekker.

Dekker was- still is- no easier a man than Jon, quick to dismiss and quicker suspect. Their first conversation amounted to Jon attempting to interrogate him and Dekker slamming him against a wall with a fore-arm expertly against his trachea until he sputtered the explanation to how he found Dekker at all.

(Rumors, that was how he found Dekker, digging deeper and deeper until he found enough accounts of a strange, older black man laced in unhappy tales. A bit of an urban legend in some communities, it turned out. Dekkers hated to be told that but accepted it after a while.)

Their second and third meetings were less violent but no less dismissive. Their fourth was when Jon heard a slow knocking on his door all night, in the last throes of highschool and still living under his grandmother’s roof. Something in Jon’s eyes that visit, some hunted and awful look convinced Dekker better than his bumbling demands. Then Jon prickled and churned in irritation at being pitied. Now he knows Dekker is simply a kind man, just far smarter and more tired than kind.

They drank stale tea and Dekker listened to his halting story, the vague basics of his childhood trauma and the crawling little things that followed since. In turn Dekker told him the basics his digging only touched upon- domains, the Web, that idiot Leitner. Some Jon guessed before, some was startlingly new and horrifying. None was comforting, and Dekker made no attempts to ease his mind.

(“You’re marked, the Web caught you then lost you and now it’s likely compounding that trauma to ripen you for the slaughter- whether that be to feed to further their agenda.”

“What can I do? How can I- how do you unmark yourself? How do you escape?”

And Dekker looked at him so tired around the eyes Jon felt the answer deep in his guts, churning there with his fear. You don’t unmark yourself, you don’t find a safe, happy ending. You run, you struggle, you fight, and one day none of it will be enough.)

Not to say Dekker wasn’t useful, probably more so than he wanted to be. He gave Jon information, tricks to protect himself and names to find more information. It was Dekker who first introduced him to Mike Crew, or at least told him enough of Crew that Jon could do the rest. Crew was the one who changed everything for Jon that windy day they had tea at a corner cafe, when he smiled and told Jon his story.

Crew escaped, he found a Leitner, threw himself into the sky and came out stormy-eyed and smiling. Perhaps Jon didn’t take it as seriously as he could have, couldn’t quite stomach the idea of any of the other equally dreadful domains to search for a way to convert in earnest. Even so he remembered, the seed planted and tended, a niggling bit of hope against crushing despair, a possibility. He looked into ways to find other domains, just in case, and in that time gathered the information he needed about the Lukases.

Information he sat on stubbornly, until he couldn’t any longer.

The entire trip to Moorland the cab driver was silent, only the faintest nod of greeting to begin a grey, bleak journey. Jon was grateful, and not just for the silence atypical of the drivers he usually found himself with. This journey was strangely and impossibly lonely, like a taste, like being lead through the barrier of society to Isolation’s grip.

He stopped thinking of what brought him there and started dwelling on the feeling, utter and empty, suffocating. As in all things he threw himself in, hoping he would swim. At least, he thought bitterly, all the dreadful little monsters out there would enjoy his thrashing if he drowned.

-

After the meeting with Nathaniel Lukas a hollow eyed servant leads Jon to a guest room. It’s hard to tell if it’s the same servant of before, they all seem more shadows on walls than people with pulses and lives and stories. That might be him soon, another servant in the halls, as much as he hopes his education will convince them to something a little less mundane. _Beggars can’t be choosers Jonathan,_ his grandmother’s voice provides. He takes a moment to be glad she died- horrible, maybe, but he can’t help but wonder if they would have demanded the death of his only living relative as payment to cross the barrier.

At the very least he can be glad they’re giving him a room, not expecting him to leave and return for some bizarre, soul crushing followup interview. Again he’s aware that maybe his dramatic flourish of spending most of his money on the cabtrip here was ill-advised, though he decides to take it as a small victory that it worked out. His small victories are few and far between, and he’s dangerously tired of himself at the moment anyway.

The dour shadow of a servant leaves him in a room larger than any bedroom he’s ever seen. He doesn’t bother trying to work out how many of his old apartment could fit in it, like that decrepit monstrosity he shared with Georgie for a couple of years and felt more like a home than anything else he ever lived in. This room feels an antique, deliberate in every way. Each no doubt priceless decoration and nick nack somehow accentuates how empty it is, how very singular and alone he is in its center.

There’s a series of delicate birdcages stood and hung in one corner, empty save for sharp petaled flowers. “Lovely, and who do domains hire for ominously symbolic interior design, I wonder?” Jon mutters to himself as he goes to the large window.

It’s easily the grandest feature of the room, with a long inlaid bench and old glass warped lovingly with age. It could be beautiful if the view wasn’t fog so thick he can only see the most basic shifting shadows in the soup of it. Trees, maybe, or the graveyard he heard is a staple of the grounds. All things considered he decides the fog isn’t so bad.

He spends a good chunk of time looking around, an act he refuses to consider nosy given he’s under no orders not to look. Clothes in the wardrobe close enough to his size it makes him wildly uncomfortable for reasons he doesn’t care to dwell on, books on the bookshelf so dry and clinical even he finds them unbearably dull, a connected bathroom with a lovely tub and soap that smells like funeral flowers - nothing comforting or interesting. He can’t bring himself to be surprised.

It doesn’t take long for the boredom of the situation to overtake his nerves, sending his mind down the dangerous avenues that got him in trouble time and time again as a child. For example, it isn’t as though he’s been told to stay put. Nathaniel Lukas dismissed him, said a room would be offered and to make himself comfortable. Maybe the ‘don’t wander around my haunted mansion’ was implied but Jon’s fairly certain he has a leg to stand on if he claimed to be stretching his legs or looking for a glass of water. He can practically feel his grandmother’s exasperated eyes on his back.

The halls aren’t much different than the room, just as every room he peeks into is the same grim, empty affair that has his hair standing on end. Every footstep sounds loud for just a moment before vanishing into the thick carpet and old walls, erasing his presence with such startling resolve he feels thin and faint at his edges. It is too easy to imagine fading into another shadow painted on the wall, less even than scenery.

At least there are no spiders here, he tells himself. He hasn’t seen one yet, not even in the darkest little corners they always lurk, and it is a small victory that feels more pyrrhic than anything. 

It takes some thinking to retrace his steps given the way the house echoes and erases, not quite the curls and turns he’s come to understand are signs of the Spiral but not unlike a maze. He wonders if the Spiral and Isolation are allies, how easily long months of solitude lead to madness and madness to solitude. Maybe they have meetings and build absurd, lonely mazes like this house, toast a job well done when some poor bastard ends up rambling to the Institute about it and feels utterly alone with an uncaring eye of whoever’s unlucky enough to listen to those statements. It’s a morbidly amusing picture that fades to being merely morbid too quickly, dismissed when he finds the long hall that originally brought him to Nathaniel Lukas’ office.

That door at least is obvious, grand and mahogany, he thinks, as though he knows the first damn thing about wood. Standing there Jon realizes just how pointless this little romp was- ah hello, me again, I was bored (not lonely, thank you, bored) and took a walk and would you know where there’s anything worth doing in your absurd, gloomy mansion? A library, maybe? He sighs, defeated in the most pointless of ways, when he hears something from the crack of the door.

Jon wishes he could pretend to be the sort smart enough to seriously consider not eavesdropping on the man who now held Jon’s life in his hands. He very much wishes he could say the list of cons would ever be daunting enough to outweigh curiosity, but instead he leans forward, not a damn thought in his head about retreating. Perhaps he can pretend later that he was looking for a reason to try and run, assuming Nathaniel Lukas would even be so brazenly discussing his fate.

As it turns out Nathaniel is so brazen, seeing as the first thing Jon hears is, “- named Jonathan Sims.”

What he hears next is a soft snort, most decidedly not dire Nathaniel Lukas. He considers trying to peek inside and apparently has enough sense not to do something quite that stupid, instead frowning and trying to keep his breathing quiet. He’s rewarded with the other man, presumably the one who snorted so rudely, saying, “And? You want me to take him out on the Tundra?”

This voice is nearly exactly like Nathaniel’s in pitch and timbre, the kind that would be impossible to tell apart if it wasn’t for the fact it sounded nearly alive in comparison. There’s a lackadaisical undercurrent, a simplicity of tone that brings to mind a man who doesn’t bother with lies or sugar coating. Worse still there’s good humor, and that makes Jon more suspicious than any of the dramatic declarations Nathaniel Lukas spewed.

“No, nothing of the sort. I’m arranging to have you marry him.”

The silence that follows would feel companionable, Jon thinks numbly, if Peter knew Jon’s sharing his shock. Jon assumes it’s shock at least, how could it not be? There are so many levels of bafflement here Jon covers his mouth to keep himself hidden rather than blurting out something daft and completely reasonable, such as ‘what the _hell?_’ or ‘are you completely mad?’ 

It doesn’t settle in Jon’s gut properly, this news, because surely this mystery man turned potential fiance will disagree. At most he’ll demand to meet Jon then _vehemently _disagree, because Jon’s cultivated a thorniness that rivals the briars guarding sleeping princesses in cursed castles. He never thought he’d need those particular thorns for suitors of his own.

Instead of any disapproval the man chuckles, a reaction that manages to both annoy and absurdly insult Jon in turn. “Well, not what I was expecting. Few questions there Nate, first being how exactly am I supposed to pop out little Lukas babies with your prospect here? Or does he have the equipment for that?”

“If and when you need heirs we can find a proper surrogate,” Nathaniel dismisses. “This isn’t about breeding, Peter, it’s about duty.”

“Duty,” the man- Peter, it turns out - says with the same light amusement of a mildly funny joke. “That’s the word you always use when what you really mean is ‘stop asking questions and do what I say, Peter.’”

“And yet you persist in asking questions regardless,” is Nathaniel’s reply, and though his tone is as empty as ever Jon swears there’s that barest hint of an answering dry edge. “You’ve dodged this commitment for long enough and Sims has potential. Use him as you will, bring him on your voyages to clean the decks if you feel it prudent or leave him here, I will leave it to your discretion.”

“The ‘but it’s nonnegotiable’ is implied, yeah?” Peter offers, and Jon swallows when there’s only silence in response. Any faint hope he has of this ludicrous situation resolving as it should is crushed when Peter continues with a put-out sigh. “You’re the boss.”

Jon shifts carefully, close to the wall and quiet as he escapes down the hall. It isn’t until he reaches his ominously decorated, obnoxiously large room that he dares to make a noise, the thump of his back against the door as he leans there.

-

Most of that evening is spent pacing the room, trying to make sense of the series of events. 

“Maybe they knew I was there and it was a joke,” he tells the room in all its impossible, horrifying pressure. His words echo, which he’s fairly certain shouldn’t be possible even if the room is abnormally large. “I mean, I suppose in the grand scheme of things being married off isn’t that dreadful. What was I imagining anyway? Well, being left to wallow alone, not marriage. Marriage, lord.”

He sighs and sits heavily on the bed. A servant brought food earlier, soup and bread and tea that he picked at and left on the desk. When he tried to ask the woman about anyone in the house named Peter she simply bowed her way out, leaving him alone. He doesn’t take it personally, given he assumes that’s the main marketable skill in this cursed house. ‘Can you sweep in and out of a room, making the occupant feel somehow _more_ lonely than before? Perfect, you’re hired.’

Rubbing his eyes until phospones burst behind his lids doesn’t make Jon feel any better and he lies down instead to consider what he knows of Peter. 

1\. A Lukas, probably. All that talk of duty seems to imply as much. Given his familiarity and similar voice to Nathaniel maybe a brother or son, a cousin at a stretch. That could mean high in the family, which Jon doesn’t know how to feel about. In truth he thinks it would be better to be married off to some distant, disliked cousin in this case.

2\. They mentioned ‘cleaning the decks’ and ‘voyages,’ so Peter probably is a captain of a ship. He ignores the intense irritation at the idea of being dragged to sea to mop floors, as though that’s his best use and tries to imagine the sort of person who captained a ship. All he can think of is an older version of Nathaniel with a beard and a windswept face. He certainly sounded like the sort to _swagger_, just another unfortunate fact.

3\. Peter doesn’t sound particularly thrilled by this idea either, even if he was passive enough over the whole affair. Apparently it’s been a long time in coming, which means Peter’s managed to avoid it for this long or had other fiancees or partners that didn’t last.

As it turns out none of this information is comforting.

Eventually Jon gives up on trying to think it through. In truth the marriage nonsense is a fine distraction from the crushing atmosphere of the house seeping into his skin, from the finely ground panic in every nerve. He’s in a house of monsters, in halls where people may have died screaming more than they left whole, if anyone ever really did leave. He’ll either be part of a legacy of unfathomable destruction of the human spirit or another tally on their body count. He chose this, and whatever comes next is his own doing.

His eyes sting, bringing with it a deep irritation and stubbornness that forces his eyes shut tight then open again. When he falls asleep it’s to the feeling of being completely and sincerely alone with his choices.


	2. two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> meetings.

Jon’s more surprised than he should be when he wakes to find the tray of food from the night before gone and a note in its place. The paper is luxuriously thick and the ink dark, words in lovely swirls. It all makes Jon feel shabby in comparison, clothes rumpled from sleeping in (he’s not touching anything in the wardrobe, thank you) and hair properly bed-headed. 

It could be Nathaniel Lukas’ handwriting, if Jon wasn’t entirely sure that Nathaniel Lukas had better things to do than tend to the man who rudely showed up at his door. The note tells him that dinner will be served at seven pm in the main dining hall (_main_, as though they have enough to have a casual dining room for Christ’s sake.) It also informs him the clothes in the wardrobe are free for his use, a statement he takes to mean ‘don’t even consider showing up in your smelly, day old clothes you plebeian.’ It ends with a polite send off and no way of contacting anyone. Jon doesn’t have it in him to even sigh.

Instead he decides to enjoy the nice tub, taking the first long bath he’s managed since highschool. His grandmother’s house had a lovely old claw foot tub, not particularly big but he was never tall or large enough for that to be any sort of issue. Sometimes when he read old period stories he’d get the whimsical urge to take a nice cup of tea and book to the bath, enjoy a nice long soak. 

Not that anyone would ever know about that strange and rare moment of pampering, especially not anyone in this house. 

There’s food when he returns, on a tray and no, he did not hear the door open or anyone come it. A little pot of coffee and some pastries, warm and the closest thing to comforting he’s felt since he came here. He eats it all this time, hungry after his night of fretting and the unpleasantly empty dreams of walls that breath with no actual life or consciousness behind them. The robe hung on the door is soft and no doubt worth more than any piece of clothing he’s ever touched. It makes him dread the wardrobe all the more.

Eventually being nude in the house is more uncomfortable than wearing some stranger’s clothes- assuming they’re someone’s and not just there in case strange men showed up to be married away. Jon’s not sure which is worse, that he’s wearing someone else’s dusty clothes or this nonsense was expected in some form, and decides instead to pull out the plainest thing he can find. That turns out to be slacks and a dress shirt, one grey the other white- boring as sin. It takes a much longer time to finally check the drawers for briefs, thankfully still in packaging and only making it more obvious this bizarre family expects visitors with only the clothes on their back. Visitors of his size and stature, apparently.

Once dressed the day goes much the same way the night before did, pacing and snooping and fretting. He considers running away a few times and finds the fog outside too daunting, though the air in the house isn’t much better. Jon never thought he’d care that much about being alone, it always felt an inevitability given his personality and the general state of his life. No friends in school and only a few in university, and of those only one he truly cared about.

Thinking of Georgie is too easy here, he finds, the sharp gutting pain of the last time she smiled at him, the duller ache of her wide eyes when he told her they wouldn’t be seeing each other again. What a row that turned out to be, not what he wanted but probably for the best in the end. She accused him of making decisions for her, of cutting himself off out of fear and he fed her anger, hoping it would help her forget him ultimately. 

There will always be a part of him hoping she wouldn’t forget, of course, some greedy bit that wants just a little of her forlorn regard when she thinks of him. He wonders now if his new, horrible god will approve of that, and the thought makes his breakfast sour in his stomach.

Like the day before he ends up heading out, this time avoiding Nathaniel Lukas’ office like a guilty child. What he really hopes for is a library, too cynical to expect anyone he can talk to for any real length of time. Instead he finds several sitting rooms, a long hall full of portraits of past family heads, a ball room made of carnivorous shadows and a dining room made to seat an ungodly amount of people. The table is set as though dinner could start at any moment, platefuls of steaming food carried in by the graceful shadows the Lukas family called servants. The decorations remind him of fairy tales with bad endings, eyes plucked out by crows and punishments too harsh for the crime.

With the fog at the windows he can’t get a sense of time, the clocks in this place few and far between. His phone lay useless in his shittly little apartment he never quite thought of as home, left behind in his dramatic bid to make this decision final. Without it his isolation feels complete, though he imagines a world where he walked the halls and checked it again and again- no service, no service, no calls in or out.

Georgie probably called by now, he thinks, assuming she didn’t take their breakup the way he intended. Every time they fought before she’d call him if he didn’t cave first, asked in clipped tones if he remembered to eat or if he was being stupid and stubborn. Sometimes he argued back, annoyed that she was always right and the reminder made his stomach twist in hunger. Sometimes he missed her more than his pride stung and their talk turned softer, halting apologies and promises to meet soon.

As he walked down a new hall he wondered if she ate dinner last night, wondered if she’d find it funny should he ever have the chance to tell her their roles reversed. Would she forgive him in another world, where he showed up at her door with takeout and ask solemnly if she ate dinner? He likes to think she’d smile, still pale around the bandages. The medication they had her on for infection killed her appetite, so he has every right to worry. She’d have long, thin scars now from the Web making a point, and if she was lucky she’d never know that fact.

When he lifts from his thoughts Jon realizes he has no damn idea where he ended up. It isn’t as though he knows the building but his memory is sharp and his mental map of the place precise- well, precise until he got caught up in his thoughts.

“Lovely,” he tells the ominous paintings, which have nothing to say back.

This wing is older in a way he can’t place, the pressure thicker in the air like going down into deep water. The sense of _wrong wrong wrong _rings in his skin, shudders up his spine and latches on his throat. Each step makes him think of breadcrumbs eaten by birds and a witch deep in the forest, hungry and waiting. In this house he doubts anything is made of lovely things like candy, just the dark wood and pale flowers in tall glass vases. The witch wouldn’t ask him to come in, wouldn’t fatten him up. The witch would be a dark hall, a throat he’d walk deeper down until nothing of him remained, picked clean and digested.

There is an odd door in this hall he notices like a moth to flame, tall and metal framed, adorned with various locks. Standing before it makes Jon feel small again, thin string pulling his hand up to knock knock on Mr. Spider’s door. It doesn’t feel quite the same, not the subtle tug of spider silk but the gravity of something impossibly large pulling him closer, pulling him in. Whatever lay beyond this door doesn’t call or expect guests, he feels this with a certainty that shakes through him. The it beyond this door has never been there.

A hand wraps around his wrist, his hand raised as if to push against the large, old door. The grip is strong, fingers pale and calloused and tug at him, forcing Jon to turn, not rough but unrelenting. The spell is broken and Jon scowls at the man standing before him, the man smiling down at him like Jon told him some off color joke.

“You must be Jonathan Sims,” the man says, voice light and empty and instantly recognizable. “Jon alright? We will be getting to know each other very well in the coming months.”

“And possibly beyond, if you’re Peter Lukas,” Jon answers and watches the way Peter laughs without any substance at all.

“Now I know you haven’t been told that yet, so someone’s been a bit naughty, haven’t they? Nate didn’t tell me you were fun,” is all Peter has to say to that, and Jon tenses with the knowledge he basically admitted he eavesdropped. Peter doesn’t seem upset but then again he doesn’t seem capable of more than empty good humor, perfectly constructed around a hollow shell. His wrist remains in Peter’s grip, and though Peter’s fingers are loose Jon feels if he tried to break free he wouldn’t be allowed, like a comfortable manacle but a manacle nonetheless. 

“Someone could have told me,” Jon tries, and takes the moment of amused breath from Peter to really see him. 

He’s not the old, grizzled sea captain Jon pictured, clean shaven except only a hint of stubble and strong jawed. His frame at least is somewhat like Jon imagined, broad shouldered and thick, the kind of muscle built from work rather than vanity. There’s enough grey in his hair to imply he’s probably older than Jon by a decent amount and his eyes are grey, the color hard to spot in the hollow shadows that pool easily. He’s so pale it’s striking against the dark shades of the hall.

In truth Jon can’t tell if he’d be considered handsome by conventional standards, though that’s less to do with anything in Peter’s look and more to do with how little time Jon spent considering such things. Peter gives off a good natured air, just a hint of the pressure the house exudes, though perhaps that is just the house resonating with his careful genetics.

He seems… bearable, maybe, up until he winks at Jon and offers, “Like what you see?”

Not bearable then, Jon thinks. “Are you going to let go of me anytime soon?”

“Nate did say you were on the ornery side- said it more diplomatic, of course,” Peter says and, Jon notes, doesn’t release him. Prick. “Why don’t we take a walk, Jon?”

“I get the feeling you’ll drag me along if I say no.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Peter answers easily, and Jon finds himself pulled away from the door with the same unrelenting force of Peter’s grip.

At the very least Peter lets him pull his wrist free when it’s clear Jon’s willing to walk with him, heading out of the old hall into a less gloomy one, though only marginally. The pressure is lesser here and Jon breaths out in relief, surprised to find just how much of a relief it is to be free of the too dark wood and too large door.

“What was behind that door?” Jon asks, and can tell from the way Peter’s face shifts that he’s amused by the question.

It has Jon bristling but he’s surprised to find Peter answers easily, “The basement.”

“Rather odd place for the basement door,” offers Jon, that shifting amusement flickering across Peter’s face like a private joke. “Let me guess, you’ll say it’s an odd house.”

“So you can learn, lovely,” Peter drawls, reminiscent to Jon of the bullies that tried to get under his skin with flippant remarks. He wishes he could say it didn’t work rather than the truth of the matter, which is it always worked.

They reach a room Jon didn’t see in his explorations, similar to the sitting rooms he found but with bookshelves up and down the walls, carved deep into the wood. There’s a fireplace crackling and casting long shadows across the books and the one wall not furnished with shelves.

That wall has a mural of sorts etched into it, a woman with golden thread curled around her arm and fingers, trailing off behind her as though leashing her to the stark stone halls she seems trapped in. Or maybe, Jon thinks, it isn’t a leash but a trail of breadcrumbs to find her way back from abandonment in the forest. Her face is shadowed and aching in a way he doesn’t care for, not with how he feels a pang of sympathy (_empathy_) for her.

Golden thread triggers a memory and he asks, “Ariadne?” When Peter’s lips quirk in response Jon can’t help but snort. “Abandoned by Theseus, isn’t that a little on the nose?”

“Abandoned and found by a god who married her- moving up in the world if you ask me,” Peter answers, tone just salacious enough Jon scowls at him.

“Are you the thrifty god in this scenario then?”

Jon isn’t sure how he feels about Peter’s obvious spark of delight at that statement. The fact he has to wonder if it pleases him in some small way does nothing for his mood. 

“That would make you the princess whisked away. Who abandoned you on this island for me to find?” Peter asks, and Jon turns from his hollow gaze to glare at Ariadne accusingly.

“I abandoned myself. Besides, I doubt Dionysus’ family ordered him to marry her and have pretentious conversations about the symbolism of it.”

Peter laughs, a sound that sticks to Jon’s skin the humidity of fog, wholly unpleasant. It isn’t the first time Peter’s humanity slips, his laughter simply… _off_, a grating tone so deep underneath what should be a lovely sound. It makes Jon think of that witch in the forest, how the two children must have heard something wrong in the sickly sweet offer to come in to her candy house.

“I’m sure you’d rather play at being the princess chained to the rock for the sea monster, bravely facing oblivion for the good of her people,” Peter prompts, and Jon rises to the bait even as he storms away from Peter to a farther shelf.

“I’m doing this for my own survival, and the mythology is getting old. Andromeda didn’t have spiders nipping at her heels.” Jon turns to Peter again, fingers brushing the spine of a book with no title it seemed. “How much did he tell you?”

Peter’s still standing by the mural, and Jon tries to ignore how his position puts him right near the dark depths of the hall Ariadne dashes from. “You didn’t eavesdrop on that part?”

“I wasn’t- just tell me,” Jon huffs.

“Making a lot of demands Jon,” Peter breezes passed that question as if Jon’s input meant very little indeed. “More than someone in your position should make, but you do seem like the sort to push your luck.”

Jon opens his mouth but Peter pushes on, “I know everything you told us and everything you didn’t. Now my question is why did you decide Isolation is a better fate? They might not eat you, you know. Play your cards right and you’d be the one pulling the strings of scared little people like you,” he says, watching Jon, eyes nothing more than pooled shadows. “Ah, is that the problem? Not interested in pulling any strings?”

“I don’t want to hurt anyone,” Jon says quietly, an admission that feels like defeat, like closing his eyes as the sea monster approaches to tear into him. “I told Nathaniel Lukas the same and you know it, so why ask?”

“Because I want to see if that self sacrificial nonsense is going to actually hold out- also you’re rather fun to make squirm.”

Jon bristles, all the impotent rage that seemed to go hand in hand with talking to this man. Maybe that’s how the Lukas family worshipped, by being so obnoxious others would rather be alone than deal with them.

“Well if you’re quite done,” Jon snaps, and Peter chuckles.

“Have somewhere to be?”

If only. “Are you going to do it?” Jon asks instead of continuing the little duel. “Marry me, that is. I don’t suppose your sort would be against breaking my neck to get out of it.”

“My sort,” Peter repeats, finally stepping away from the wall and into Jon’s space. He’s too tall, Jon decides irritably, a better feeling to cling to then the dread wrapping around his guts. Like this he can so easily imagine Peter doing just as he said, snapping his neck with a swift twist and leaving him with wide, unseeing eyes on the firelit floor. “I will be marrying you, Jon, because I’ve been asked.”

“Family duty,” breathes out Jon, humorless and tight. 

“Something you should learn, yeah? You’re about to join our family.”

Peter smiles down at him and Jon feels small, a piece on a chess board slid around until his sacrifice is most useful. He can’t look away, watches the nothing that is Peter’s face shift slowly, quietly, something darkly amused, or so Jon thinks. He rests a hand at Jon’s elbow, seemingly unbothered by Jon’s flinch in return. “See you soon, Jon.”

Jon watches as he leaves, feeling the tether around his neck all the tighter, even in his absence. 

-

For the most part Moorland House remains singular, empty and quiet as Jon continues his stay. Food arrives at his room at the appropriate times, dirty clothes vanish from the hamper then show up folded or hung back in place. He goes to dinner and the table is empty. His bed is made every time he leaves the room for any amount of time, leaving him to feel like the bedroom he inhabits isn’t lived in, even by him. Everything is too clean, too ordered, too silent.

Peter was good for one thing at least, and that is showing Jon the library. He goes there most days, scouring the books, at first careful of Leitners until his boredom gets the better of him and he chooses the most interesting with little more than a glance to make sure the dreaded mark of Leitner’s library doesn’t grace the inside cover. Most of the collection is old and too much is in languages he can’t even guess, but enough of the books are accessible. Jon thinks the library could keep him occupied for years- he hopes it could, if he’s to be stuck here in a loveless sham of a marriage.

After a few days of staying in the library Jon does start venturing out, exploring more carefully than before. It’s idle until the day he hears quiet murmurs, signs of a house with people in it. No matter where he goes he can’t seem to find the source, just more rooms empty and silent, so still they seem unable to be touched. It’s infuriating, leading Jon in circles until suddenly, finally, he sees someone.

It’s back in the library of all places, a man and a woman speaking as the sit by the fire, a servant with dull eyes pouring them wine that seems too dark to be wine. None of them look at him and Jon nearly flees in awkward embarrassment, up until the irritation of before stays his hand and he takes a book and sits stubbornly in the corner.

Sadly he can’t make out what the pair are saying, and he isn’t surprised to find he feels just as alone as he did when they weren’t in the room, if not more for the obvious shunning. His stubbornness is rewarded an hour later though, when the woman leaves and the man finally glances over, acknowledging his existence. Jon knows this is when he should speak, should question, but he finds himself struggling to find words.

The man must be a Lukas, has the same face shape and pale skin of Peter and Nathaniel. He’s younger, slimmer, with wireframe glasses and a pinched look that reminds Jon a predatory bird of some sort. Jon knows if he lets this go on the man will escape, so he blurts the first thing that comes to mind, “Hello.”

He nearly winces, shoulders tight as the man’s brow raises in return. At least this Lukas can emote, Jon thinks through the flurry of embarrassment. “You’re a Lukas, aren’t you?”

“Conrad Lukas,” the man answers after a pause, and Jon swears he must have waited simply to twist Jon in knots. “And you would be Peter’s husband-to-be.”

“Jonathan Sims,” Jon answers tersely, not at all interested in being known only as ‘Peter’s husband.’ He doubts he’ll be able to change that inevitably, but he can certainly go down fighting. “How are you related to Peter?”

“He’s my cousin,” Conrad answers, standing and leaving his half empty wineglass to the side. The action seems a dismissal and Jon’s quick to stand, desperate for answers- desperate for someone to talk to, if only for a few moments. 

“Maybe you could tell me about him- Peter, that is. We’ve only met once.”

That stops Conrad enough he looks at Jon again with that obnoxious raised brow, like Jon is an ill behaved dog, amusing and unfortunate. Jon wonders if stepping in front of the door to stop him would be a poor choice but Conrad seems to settle, even if he doesn’t sit back down.

“Peter is a mischievous brute,” Conrad answers him. “Useful, but often unpredictable, and never enough to require much severe action.”

“He’s a ship captain, isn’t he?”

“Yes, of the Tundra,” Conrad replies. He steps around the couch, not as tall as Peter but tall enough Jon needs to lift his eyes upward to catch Conrad’s heavy gaze. “If you’re lucky you’ll mostly be left alone, waiting for his return.”

“If I’m lucky.”

Conrad’s gaze might as well be a smile, cold and patronizing. He steps to the door, leaving Jon and the half empty wineglass behind.

Jon sits and waits, thinking it over, letting the rolling unease settle and bubble anew in turns in his stomach. A servant will come for the wineglass and then he can ask more questions, persist until they give him more than vague, threatening comments and icy gazes. Even if he can’t escape this fate he can at least learn all he can, prepare, fortify for the storm.

He nods off after a few hours, and when he comes to the fire is still going strong and the wineglass is gone, not even a ring of condensation in its place.

-

Eventually the waiting game comes to an end.

Jon keeps mental note of the days that pass, knows that twenty have come and gone since he stepped foot in the house. It feels longer, it feels so often like he is the only person left in the world, living in a haunted house, walking with ghosts. At least ghosts make noise, at least they have agendas and rattling windows. Not here, nothing is here, only conversations in faint whispers he can’t trace then silence, echoing silence. Even when he speaks the walls soak up the noise like it never passed his lips at all.

He’s nearly grateful when someone comes for him, a woman in a long black dress and an apron, looking like any of the other servants. Jon tries to ask where they’re going when she leads him down the hall, and when she doesn’t answer he studies her face. No, he doesn’t recognize it, she must be a different maid than any he’s seen so far. When he looks away he finds it hard to remember her features, enough that when she leaves him alone in one of the sitting rooms he can’t recall her face at all.

He waits, pacing the room back and forth, wondering what happens now. Would someone come in with a suit and tell him the wedding will soon be under way? He doesn’t even have his own clothes anymore, vanished when put them in the hamper never to return. Maybe they decided against this absurd plan, this marriage that seems more a punishment for Peter Lukas than anything else. He couldn’t give Peter an heir, he didn’t have money or connections, and surely if they wanted his fear they had other ways of harvesting it.

It feels like hours pass, the fog at the high windows covering the sky and landscape totally. His anxiety fades to a defeated resignation, a truth he knew he needed to accept when he first decided to come to this awful place. There is no happy ending, there’s only the frying pan and the fire. At least, Jon thinks, if he has jumped into the fire he won’t be someone’s meal when he’s burnt through.

The door opens with a creak that has him jumping, turning to face another servant who nods for Jon to follow. Jon bites his tongue this time, though he desperately wants to ask if they’ll simply be leading him from room to room until he went mad. They don’t, instead the grim faced man brings him to a familiar hall, the same he met Peter in. Peter is there, dull eyed and smiling, beside Nathaniel. This close Jon is sure they must be brothers, too similar in appearance and close in age.

It takes a few moments to notice they’re surrounding the same door Peter drew him away from, the heavy, out of place door that apparently led to the basement. Jon fixates on it again, all the more when when Nathaniel’s pale fingers touch the surface of it and Jon swears he can see it pulse and breath in response.

His throat is dry, his mouth ashy. He’s not sure why he’s afraid but he is, more than he has been since coming to this house. “What is this?”

“Initiation,” Peter answers with an easy smile. “Same as any member of the family goes through.”

“I get the feeling this initiation has a higher mortality rate than most,” Jon can’t help but quip, dry and tight. Nathaniel offers nothing but his heavy gaze and Peter’s lips quirk faintly.

“I could make metaphors about labyrinths, if that will make you feel better,” Peter offers, and before Jon can snap back Nathaniel takes out a set of iron keys to unlock the door.

The clank of metal in the locks feels cartoonishly loud, louder even than Jon’s racing heart slamming against his chest. “What’s going to happen?” he asks, knows it’s useless to question but can’t help the words from spilling out. “Where does this go?”

“Follow the stairs down,” Nathaniel says, mild but it still feels like an order. Jon swallows as he goes to the doorway, looks down at the steep set of stairs leading to a stretch of stone flooring he can barely make out. It’s dim but not completely dark, and when he’s in the doorway he notices neither brother have followed.

He turns and looks at them in confusion, only to get Peter’s easy smile in return. “You’re going alone, Jon.”

“Fitting,” Jon murmurs and turns back to the stairs. He’s halfway down when he hears the door close firmly behind him.

-

When Jon was young, younger even than the eight year old boy found by spiders, he made a game of moving silently. His grandmother’s house was made of old wood, it creaked and groaned and complained under even light weight. Stomping up the stairs got him scolded, sliding down the halls on socked feet got sharp looks. Even then Jon was defiant, didn’t back down to order to be quieter, asked ‘why?’ and watched his grandmother’s face pinch in thinly veiled irritation. 

That is all to say he didn’t walk quietly for her or to keep from being lectured. He did it simply because he liked that little control over his environment, proof he could be loud or quiet, seen or unseen. He liked to snoop.

He couldn’t have been more than six or seven when he moved silently up the stairs, an orange tucked under his arm. It was too late to be out of his room, too late to eat, but Jon was hungry and wasn’t allowed any dessert this week since he wandered off and got lost again. An orange wasn’t his first choice but it was all the sweeter for his subterfuge, more dangerous since his grandmother kept her door cracked open. 

Sliding socked feet on the hardwood inched him closer to his room, now near the dangerous point close to his grandmother’s door. As he got close he could hear his grandmother mumbling inside, peeked in to see her kneeling by the bed with her hands clasped. Praying- she tried to instill religion in him but it refused to take and she grew tired of all his questions seeking to explain the impossible nature of God. She taught him prayers before bedtime so he understood at least what she was doing there, knelt on the floor. Her voice was just loud enough to be heard.

Only one part stuck out, curling cold and sharp down his spine. 

“Sometimes I wish when he gets lost he won’t come back. Forgive me lord, I’d never wish Jonathan ill but sometimes I’m weak, sometimes-”

He made it all the way to his room, closing the door softly behind him. When he crawled into his bed he brought the covers up high, over his head, orange forgotten on the nightstand. There in the dark he thought to no one, to an exhausted grandmother, exasperated teachers and children who laughed behind his back _sometimes I wish I stayed lost too._

-

Down the long hall at the bottom of the stairs Jon is lost. He doesn’t turn, can’t bring himself to look back. The hall is long and full of doors leading to empty rooms, to empty rooms leading to empty closets and offshoot halls and more stairs, up and down. It’s a surprisingly simple layout, not a maze so much as an endless, empty place. It reminds him of the abandoned school that once stood on the outskirts of town, boarded up and full of empty beer cans and cigarette butts.

There are no beer cans here, just dust and creaking chairs. Every sound he makes is swallowed whole never to return. 

He’s lost. It’s not a maze, he could turn around but he doesn’t, can’t. He walks forward and thinks of his grandmother, of the children in his school and the students in his university. He thinks of ‘_you could do better, Jon_’ and the way his tongue felt heavy every time he tried to explain himself, no he didn’t mean to hurt anyone’s feelings, no he didn’t know that was the wrong thing to say, no he just did what came naturally and it was always wrong wrong _wrong._

It rings through him, all the self pitying, hard truths that he tries to brush past every day, every evening when he lies in bed attempting to sleep through anxiety that chokes him. His natural state of being annoyed people, upset them, a flaw to suffer through in hopes he’ll change. Even Georgie, he thinks, would smile strained and wait for him to catch up, expecting him to be better than he was- than he is. She would wait for an explanation from his heavy, clumsy tongue, and always be disappointed

Jon’s stops, breaths through the tightening in his chest. So he ran away and now he’s lost, just like he wanted to be, just like his grandmother couldn’t resist wishing for, just like he should be. He didn’t need to be isolated, he was already alone.

He swallows, breath coming shorter, self preservation and stubbornness steeling his spine and lashing at cloud of his head. He turns, ready to storm out and find his way back to the stairs, slam at the door until they acknowledged him, _saw _him. He turns and there is no hallway, just a blank wall behind him. Another turn and the long hall that was once before him is now shortened, cut off by another blank wall, just a segment of hallway with a single door.

The door has a window looking into a simple room, just a chair and a window out into the fog. Jon enters, the creak of the door impossibly loud in a space that are all other sounds. It closes behind him and he knows the door won’t be there when he turns again.

“You could do better, Jon,” he murmurs to himself, feels the absence of judging gazes more keenly than he ever felt their presence.

He takes a seat in the middle of the room and breaths.


	3. three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> bachelor party

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> from this chapter forward they're going to be unedited for now, because i want to get these out as fast as i can for the big bang. i'll come back and fix them up soon, apologies in the meantime

“It seems you’ll be married after all,” Nathaniel says evenly. To anyone else his words would be flat, emotionless, completely without the hook of feeling behind them that dug in and dragged out conversation.

Peter knows better, knows Nathaniel better than his hollow core and posturing. There’s the faintest twist of humor in the words, as if Jonathan’s Sim’s survival is an amusing note in Peter’s life. It is, Peter supposes, rather like a prank. He may know Nathaniel well but he doesn’t know him well enough to tell if he expected Jon to live through his hollowing. Maybe the threat of marriage was meant only to be that, an idle threat that ended with Jon’s life.

Probably not. If Nathaniel wants Jon dead he’d have left him under the house and told Peter he didn’t make it, letting Jon writhe in isolated agony until the halls had their fill. 

“Seems so,” Peter answers. He stands by the window of Nathaniel’s office, looking out into the comfortable fog. In the glass he can see Nathaniel turned in his chair to regard him, flat, emotionless and impassive. “How bad is he?”

“Catatonic at first, but he’s fallen to a deep sleep. Since he apparently insists on not sacrificing others his recovery is going to be a slow one,” says Nathaniel, and Peter hears the implication loud and clear. _You’ll have to take care of him or make sure he sees sense._

“His mind might be changed on that front. Most don’t come out with the same care for their fellow man.”

Nathanielinclines his head, the closest to agreement Peter will get out of him. “You’ll find a way to change his mind regardless, I’m sure.”

Peter smiles at the glass, past it to the fog. 

-

Curiosity brings him to Jon’s room, or the room they’re keeping Jon. Peter knows very well there’s no owning a room in this house, there’s coexistence at best. At worst- well, Moorland doesn’t spit out what it chews up. Not even bones.

Even the servants don’t see him as he slides in, watching some nameless man wipe the beading sweat from Jon’s brow. The bed looks too big for him, a large, regal affair inhabited by a child tossing and turning in the throe of nightmares. Dark red sheets the servants pull away and change when they soak through with sweat, and the action drags a pitiful whimper from Jon’s throat.

He’s lovely in his agony, Peter thinks. Maybe enough that it will feed their god like Jon claims to want.

The servant leaves Jon tucked and thrashing, navy sheets too tight over his chest. Peter steps closer, sits at the side of the bed and watches Jon shrink instinctively from him, from his gravity, trembling and small. Yet when Peter reaches out to brush at the damp hair of his temples Jon turns to him, a flower to the sun, hot against Peter’s cold skin. It surprises Peter and he slides his hand down, lets Jon practically nuzzle into his palm desperately.

“Do you think I can protect you? Comfort you?” Peters asks him, expects nothing and gets nothing but Jon’s breath against his wrist. “Little comforts aren’t worth it, Jon, not when you rely on other people for them. Hurts all the more when they’re torn away.”

And to make his point he drags his hand away, listens with relish to the weak, unhappy sound Jon makes, how he shakes against being alone in the world once more. 

Peter stands, watches his fiance mouth silent words no one will ever hear, and thinks his immediate future is going to be far more interesting than he once thought.

-

“Did you miss me?”

Peter always asks Elias that, every time they speak after a lull. Over the phone he can’t see that faintest flicker of exasperation at Peter’s own little joke but he does get to hear Elias exhale softly, purely for his benefit. 

Phones don’t always work in Moorland, at least not for Peter. He assumes Nathaniel must have figured something out, given he rarely leaves Moorland unless he’s travelling for business, and said business needs the unfortunate connection of telephoning. Sometimes Peter wonders if it isn’t unlike a parent letting the older, more responsible sibling have a phone in their room while the rash, younger one is left bereft. _When you’re older, _that’s what parents say, or so he’s heard. He can count the number of discussions he’s had with his parents over the years on two hands.

Point being he’s out of Moorland, sitting in the back of one of the family’s sleek cars as the fog lessens and rolls by. He’ll go by the docks, see Salesa and browse his wares, then tell Thaddeus to bring in a couple new crew members. One of those new crew will likely be dead in the ocean by the time they return from their upcoming journey. Peter’s always preferred letting his crew have the final say in that, democracy and all that.

Elias asks after his recent journey and Peter gives him the barest details, only the faintest hint of a fuller, fascinating story that Elias will need to buy from him if he wants. Elias doesn’t take that bait, sadly, though Peter’s not surprised. Elias, he thinks with something almost hollowly fond, refuses to give even an inch unless it suits him perfectly.

“Gertrude may need passage soon,” Elias does eventually offer him, the opening for negotiation he so refused before. “A whim, she claims, but asked for the Tundra by name.”

“So a scheme, not a whim,” Peter answers, imagines the faint twitch of Elias’ lips in recognition. “‘Afraid I may be busy for the weeks to come, I do have a wedding to plan.”

Peter relishes in the pause from Elias, the rare tell of his being caught off guard. He can almost picture Elias schooling himself, forcing his shoulders looser, brushing away all the nearly invisible markings of his surprise. Peter is one of the only ones who could see them for what they are, after so long.

“Your wedding?” Elias clarifies and Peter hums in agreement. Elias’ tone is dry when he continues. “And what lucky young woman has Nathaniel rounded up for you?”

“A man, actually,” Peter corrects, again enjoying the ripple of quiet surprise. Elias is from old money, Peter knows, and always expects the stilted trappings of that kind of breeding in the Lukas family. “Funny lad, really. I think you’d like him.”

“Your family has always been a delight to meet,” Elias offers, even drier than before. “Is this a punishment or does he offer something to the family line?”

“Neither, as far as I can tell. Maybe we can discuss it over dinner.”

“Your new fiance may not appreciate how our dinners typically end,” Elias points out passively, making Peter laugh.

“I won’t tell if you don’t. Besides, aren’t I owed a send off from bachelorhood?”

“Tonight then,” Elias says. Peter’s always found his effortless bossiness particularly amusing. “Meet me in my office at seven- and Peter?”

“Hm?”

“Do not take any of my workers.” His tone is patient but Peter can imagine the snap of teeth. This is what he gets for doing Elias a favor and thinning the less deserving of the herd, he supposes.

“So protective,” Peter muses. “See you tonight, Elias.”

He snaps the phone shut, gaze returning to the muffled scenery through the mist. 

-

“He’s trying to distract you,” Elias decides later that night, hand curled around a flute of champagne Peter insisted upon. Elias’ apartment is the top floor, of course, looking down on the affluent area and city beyond. A tilt of the head and one could pick out the Institute, squat and old stoned. Peter never found it all that impressive of a building but he guesses there’s no accounting for taste.

Elias stands against the floor to ceiling glass, looking unerringly out to his precious Institute and likely looking in as well to the few still there. Gertrude and her lone assistant, Peter assumes, or maybe some poor soul trapped deep within Artifact Storage, lost to some mechanism beyond their understanding. Elias never did mind losing his people to interesting little accidents, oh no, but if Peter sends a worker off it’s suddenly a problem. Unbelievable, really.

“He thinks giving you a new project will keep you busy, perhaps,” Elias continues, Peter’s eye drawing to the movement of his thin lips. Alone together Elias likes to play at ease, and Peter’s made the mistake of underestimating him more than once. He hopes to do so again soon. “One of the few tasks you won’t twist to your own rhythm is family duty, after all.”

Peter shrugs. In truth he doesn’t care why Nathaniel chose to marry him off suddenly, and to some no-name Web refugee at that. Even if it bothered him he knows better than to argue, especially with Nate when he got that long game look in his eyes. Elias enjoys the speculation though, and Peter rests a shoulder against the window, watching the landscape beyond sink below the fog.

“He should know better than playing around with the Web. As you say, the spider always finds a way to win,” he answers, smirking at the flicker of annoyance so few would spot in Elias’ eyes as the fog overtakes his precious view. As though he needed his meaty human eyes for that. “My thought is he wants someone strong enough to keep a proper eye out and expendable enough to cut loose to the Web if worse comes to worse, yeah?”

“I doubt you believe as much, or you wouldn’t tell me. You should consider that more seriously.” Elias’ sharp gaze tries to cut through him, past skin and towards the winding hollow places with no end. Peter wonders if he’s worried- he wonders if it’s for Peter or for his own investment in Peter as an ally. 

Once it would have been the former, when they were both younger and Peter managed to get so deeply under Elias’ skin. He tunneled and dug until he found the soft and sweet bits of Elias, then sunk his teeth in. Elias was never the same after, and Peter thinks back to that fact fondly.

“Regardless, when will I meet this husband-to-be? I admit I’m…”

“Curious?” Peter finishes for him, and Elias tilts his head in agreement.

“It’s rare for the Web to take active interest,” he waves off, and Peter exhales a little chuckle of a breath.

“If he survives the next few days I’ll see about having you over for tea.” Peter places his glass down, smirks as Elias’ eyes hood knowingly, passively. He doesn’t even try to place his glass to the side as Peter crowds him against the glass. “Now, I believe you owe me a proper congratulations on the end of my bachelorhood.”

He plucks the glass from Elias’ fingers and lets it crash to the floor in a splatter of champagne and glass. “Impatient brute,” Elias sighs, head thumping hard against the window as Peter pushes closer still.


	4. four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> marriage

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning for someone thinking they're going to have to have sex whether they want to or not
> 
> also this fic won't contain any explicit sex scenes just btw, trying to challenge myself with an only plot story. might do sexy stuff as one offs of the series but who knows

Nightmares never bothered Jon as much as others he suspects by the way people speak of them. They’re unpleasant, yes, entirely draining and uniquely exhausting but they aren’t real. Logic slices them in half, dissects and finds them to be the hollow nonsense they are.

(That didn’t account as much for dreams of a persistent knocking at the door, of an indistinct blur of a face he knows to be an unfortunate bully even without telling details he can’t recall. Those were less dreams or nightmares and more memories. Predictions. Prophecy.)

What bothered Jon about nightmares since he was small was that moment he woke up and the world had yet to right itself. There’s always that singular, blinding moment of true fear and panic when his mind and careful logic hasn’t caught up to the facts, and he is still living in the shadow of a nightmare past. A singular and unpleasant moment, but one that drains away.

Under Moorland House felt like living that moment. Waking up now, in the aftermath of the downstairs, feels like that moment stretching until the end of his life.

No one is in the room when he wakes, a fact Jon can barely process beyond the sickening certainty no one would ever be there again. He rushes to the bathroom and dry heaves into the sink, fingers tight on the lip of the marble and thinking-

Thinking downstairs, down, wherever he looked there were people with their backs turned to him. _I don’t need you _turned to _why are you doing this_ turned to _please please look at me look at me look-_ They never looked, and out of the corner of his gaze he expects to see them. There is movement and his head jerks up to take in the mirror, is own reflection is

his head is turned too, just the back of it, turned away from him, disgusted and small 

staring back at him. He almost doesn’t recognize it, the grey tinged specter of his face. His skin is so pallid, the brown now faded and dusty. His eyes are dark, so much darker, so viscerally wrong Jon cringes and shoves himself back until his shoulders hit the far wall.

The man he doesn’t know in the mirror looks back at him still, terrified and disturbed until Jon scrambles out of the bathroom.

He ends up curling in his blanket, huddled on the bed nicer than anything he’s ever owned or seen in his entire life. It takes so long to warm up and he realizes with a shuddering breath of a laugh that he’s too cold now, his skin is so cold now, so clammy, like a corpse. Maybe he died down there, maybe he’s always been dead in his own way, a shadow of a person dancing around other people’s lives.

The window starts to darken when his door finally opens again, making Jon tense and watch unblinking from his cocoon of too-nice sheets. A servant walks in with a tray and Jon realizes he’s never seen one enter before, even when it seemed he waited up and watched. They’re all too clear now, this dour-faced man cut out like a shadow, like him but more insubstantial somehow.

“What is that?” Jon murmurs, almost as surprised as the servant by the man’s shock, his placid face suddenly stark with animal fear. It settles again, places the tray down.

Jon doesn’t expect an answer, never got one before, but the servant speaks almost deferentially when he surprises Jon with a reply. “Tea and broth, sir. Do you require anything?”

“No,” Jon answers, watching the man nod and retreat quickly. He sits up, still trembling as the nest of blankets fall from his shoulders and pool around him. The teacup is warm against his fingers, a quiet comfort that sets his shaking off worse. He nearly spills the tea all over the bed as he places the cup aside and lies back down, burying himself under the sheets and closing his eyes.

-

He sees the movements of all the servants now, hears the creak of their feet on floorboards and the rush of their breath. It isn’t his hearing that’s better, he’s fairly certain of that. If anything he just feels… intuned somehow to the house. When he lies still on the bed sometimes it feels as though his body fades away and he’s merely wood floors, old wallpaper and warped glass. The servants step on him as if he isn’t there.

Within a few days he starts to feel more alive again, or at least more awake. He’s completely lost track of time now, and when he thinks of Georgie worried and waiting his whole chest aches. It’s a bright feeling compared to the sluggish dread he’s been stewing in so Jon holds the feeling close, lets the ache rattle through him with each shaking breath.

And he feels better- well, better isn’t exactly the right word. More awake, yes, that still is closer, awake enough he climbs out of bed, cleans up and gets dressed. For a fleeting, horrible moment the door of his room is gone, sending him back to bed, curled shivering under the blankets. But no, it’s there, he can see it from his cocoon. It takes far too long to pull himself up again.

Irritating is a welcome feeling, one that races up his spine as he finally starts considering his situation. None of the Lukases came to see him, to explain, not his erstwhile fiance or said fiance’s scheming brother. Jon’s hardly surprised by this but lord, the annoyance feels good. It’s old, familiar, as comfortable as any well-worn jacket years broken in. He realizes he missed being himself, even if he knows he’ll come to regret his nature again soon.

The library is where Jon left it, the fire crackling and empty besides. He tries to stay there, to indulge in another strange old book, but the mural of the lost woman and her golden thread loom and scratch at his skull. He had no thread in his maze, no breadcrumbs in the forest, and a rapid, unfamiliar resentment crawls up Jon’s throat as he looks at her anxious face.

_You got yourself into this mess. Why do you deserve any sympathy?_ He wants to ask her as much, but instead grabs a book and hurries back to his room-

-a room occupied by a stern, dark-skinned woman when he enters. 

Jon freezes, mouth open to apologize for opening the wrong door, but the woman snaps a finger and gestures him over. A young man from beside her ushers Jon further in, and Jon feels dizzy with the sudden onslaught of humanity before him- people, not shadows, not servants little better than placeholders. He feels nauseous, like a starving man glutting on food after so long without.

“I-” Jon starts, the words feeling dry and cracked in his throat, old and weak and unused.

“Jonathan?” The woman asks in a crisp accent he can’t place and he nods helplessly. “Good. Stand in the light here.”

“Why?” Jon at least manages, herded again by the young man. The boy can’t be older than twenty, stubborn hair slicked back in what he must think is professional. There’s a ribbon around his shoulders that he hands to the woman- a tape measure, Jon realizes.

“Your suit,” she explains, patient and uninterested in his questions besides. She touches his arm and the contact is so real, so solid Jon shakes. Neither of his… tailors, apparently, make any comment over it. “For your wedding.”

The words pierce a fog Jon didn’t realize he’s been lost in since waking. The wedding, right, his whole point. He survived their _initiation _and now… now he’s one of them. Or will be. A Lukas. Jonathan Lukas, since he very much doubts he’ll get the luxury of keeping his own name.

He laughs, a rasping sound both visitors ignore as they go about their business- the woman measuring and spewing out numbers, the boy writing them down. “When is the wedding?” he asks, and the woman shoots him a look that makes him feel dull-witted. 

“I wasn’t invited,” she informs him without a trace of that withering disregard, leaving Jon to wonder if he really saw it at all. “The suit will be done in two days time, so sometime after that.”

“Right,” Jon mumbles, goes quiet as he lets them continue. For so long he was desperate for contact, for anyone to speak to, and now he wants nothing more than to hide in his bed like a child.

They leave soon after, don’t bother asking for color or style preferences, which Jon is glad for, given he knows next to nothing about suits. The implications aren’t lost on him though, how little his input matters, how he’s a piece being yanked around this way and that. He passed their horrid test and now he’s on to the next step.

He sits heavily on the bed, trying to wrap his mind around just how much he sold when he agreed to Nathaniel Lukas’s terms. His freedom, his future, his… he doesn’t know what he lost under Moorland House, but he feels it missing like a dull, phantom ache. In return he’ll live and not have to hurt anyone, assuming the deal is kept.

It alarms him how much less he cares about other people now, how easy it is to think _maybe it would be better them than me._

-

One morning Jon wakes to a servant hanging the suit on his door. There’s the mortifying business of the servant staying put and informing him he’s here to help Jon into the suit. For all the nerves the servants have around him now they must be more intimidated by whoever gave them this order, since nothing Jon says convinces them to leave.

“The wedding is today?” Jon asks as the servant helps strap his sock garters- _sock garters_, as though elastic didn’t damn well exist to help keep the socks up. His helper has nothing to say to that, a reaction Jon has learned means ‘hell if I know’ in morbid Lukas serving staff language. He sighs. “Wonderful. I don’t suppose I’ll be allowed breakfast?”

“You can’t eat before the ceremony,” the servant answers, knowing that much at least.

The rule makes Jon uneasy. “Why?”

“In case you’re ill.”

“Ah,” is Jon’s uncomfortable response.

The suit is nice, he guesses, or at least the fabric is so fine it slides under his fingers like water. The tail of the jacket is long and the suit itself a pale grey, the vest underneath dark navy with silver thread embroidering a stern pattern across. The kerchief in his pocket and tie are silver like the thread, and when he looks at himself he feels like an old doll dressed in finery to appear newer and more valuable than he really is.

The servant fixes up his hair, adds finishing touches with cuff links and gentle tugs until it’s over and Jon is led out of the room.

He tries questioning the servant as they walk, receiving mostly silence in return for his questions. They go through a section of the house Jon hasn’t seen, much like any other though the subtle pressure of the house rings stronger here. A hall and side room later lead them outside, on an old stone path and into the fog that shows only a few feet in front of their faces. Without the path Jon’s fairly certain they’d have no idea where to go.

Where they go is a graveyard, because of _course_ it is. At the very least they only pass through it, past old graves and mausoleums to a gate that leads to a garden, dark leafed roses and heather and blooms he doesn’t recognize. The plants grow freely like they’ve taken over some long-abandoned place. They’re surprisingly beautiful, the way they wind up trellises and the ankles of some pale statue. Jon imagines this place could be pleasant if the damn fog let up for a moment.

He’s not terribly shocked to find their destination a gazebo- though gazebo seems a little pedestrian for the large, hulking stone structure delicately wrapped in vines and hanging blooms. No one is there and Jon takes a moment to look around, reaching up to touch one of the dark petals overhead and nearly falling over when a breath hits his ear. “Do you like the venue?”

“Jesus-” Jon twirls and yes, he probably would have fallen over if Peter’s broad hands didn’t grab his elbows to keep him up. Peter smirks at him, an answering hollow ringing in his eyes Jon recognizes now from his own mirror. Peter’s suit is darker, a little more rakish, black and grey. He isn’t wearing a tie, one button undone and Jon’s fairly certain that’s not what the tailor intended.

Jon pulls away, glowering at his fiance as he rubs his elbow where Peter’s hand actually felt something like warm. “Yes, I especially loved the romantic stroll through the graveyard to get here.”

“Good, I was wondering if our initiation would stomp some of that sharpness down. I’m glad to see it didn’t,” Peter offers.

“Oh, because it’s so very charming?” 

“I like a challenge,” winks Peter, and Jon’s glad for the footsteps that interrupt their exchange.

Nathaniel, of course, dressed better than Peter. Beyond him Jon can see more people standing around, amongst the garden or in the large circle of the gazebo. _In-laws_, Jon thinks with no small amount of dry dread. He forces his back straighter as Nathaniel beckons them over to the center.

Whatever Jon’s expecting it isn’t a fairly pedestrian speech from Nathaniel, who has them stand facing each other as he speaks familiar words to what Jon’s heard in churches before, though he doubts their ‘lord’ is the same. Maybe it is, maybe this is all some mockery of the Christian or Catholic god, maybe the family is like most other absurd cults and found a way to take another’s god and claim to do their work. It’s hard to tell, the words warble and fade, echo off into some deep place and barely return.

When Jon looks up he swears every back is turned to him again, even if he can feel Peter’s eyes on him. He closes his own and focuses on that feeling, lets Peter Lukas be his entire world for what feels an eternity until Peter’s palm is on his jaw to tilt his head up to be kissed.

The kiss shakes him more than he wants to admit, more than he ever wanted to feel for anyone so dreadfully monstrous. It’s a connection, a glorious, real moment of finding another, of his world answering back. Jon leans into it, grimaces when Peter smirks against his lips and pulls away. The shame makes it incredibly easy to avoid Peter’s gaze as Nathaniel tells them they’re now wed.

There’s no applause, only Peter taking Jon’s elbow and leading him back to the house, surprisingly quiet. When Jon sneaks a look Peter looks contemplative, carefully blank, and Jon doesn’t know what to make of the expression.

It doesn’t matter though, not when they re-enter the house to a party- an actual wedding party that surprised Jon more than anything else. Men and women with pale skin walk around with wine glasses and flutes of champagne, offering congratulations in passing as Jon and Peter move through the halls. The food actually smells good and the flowers are almost tasteful, if not funerial for Jon’s taste. Appropriate, he thinks, and his expression makes Peter break his silence.

“Surprised? You didn’t think we’d have a wedding without a proper party,” he says, grabbing a champagne flute and pushing it into Jon’s hands.

“No, I can’t say I was expecting ‘party’ when it came to a cult that worships Isolation,” Jon answers testily. 

“Cult- honestly Jon, you’re family now, try to have a little pride in your own,” Peter responds, then clinks their glasses together with a grin. “Jonathan Lukas, from this night forward. Congratulations on making it this far, yeah? Between you and me most weren’t convinced you would.”

Jon hates how he predictably tenses at those comments, even if the irritation remains pleasant compared to his now, constant dread. “Oh yes, thank you so much. I especially enjoyed being left to my own devices for days until suddenly being thrown into my own wedding without so much as a clue.” When Peter smiles Jon presses on. “I have questions, about that… place, and what- what _exactly_ has been happening to me. I-”

Peter puts a finger to Jon’s lips, shutting him swiftly up with first surprise then indignation. “C’mon Jon, it’s a party. Try to enjoy yourself.”

“I would enjoy myself better if I had any idea what was going on,” Jon counters, and Peter has the gall to wink at him.

“I think you’d enjoy yourself better with food in your stomach,” Peter offers, and when Jon’s stomach clenches wantingly in response Peter smirks again, as though he somehow knew. “Though so, come here.”

They move through to another room with a long table full of plates, and yes, Jon can admit he’s starving and tired enough to let his points go for the moment. Many people come to Peter to chat, all but ignoring Jon aside from the curious glances in his direction. 

Jon’s more than happy to be ignored now, giving him time to eat and observe. He stays close to Peter, unwilling to be lost amongst this crowd of dangerous strangers, even if he’s well aware that Peter is just as dangerous if not more so. At the very least Peter has a vested interest in keeping him alive. Probably. Jon hopes.

Most are Lukases, or at least they’re pale, quiet and self-absorbed in the ways Jon has come to recognize. A few aren’t- a couple practically melding with the shadows of the corner, a man pale in an entirely different, lifeless way, an asian woman with sharp eyes. An old man approaches Peter at one point, practically jovial as he shakes Peter's hand and offers seemingly heartfelt congratulations. He even shakes Jon’s hand, grinning and going on about ‘being young again.’ The sharp tang of ozone is nearly overpowering when their eyes meet.

“Simon Fairchild,” Peter tells him when the old man- Simon- leaves them to speak with Nathaniel.

“Vast?” Jon guesses, then tries not to be pleased when Peter looks at him almost approvingly.

“The smell give him away? He’s an old ally, a really old ally. The snake bastard owes me money,” Peter laments, and Jon wisely decides not to ask for once.

After dinner- or it feels like dinner, time move strangely as Jon tries to move his way through the day- Peter starts making excuses for them, smiling and leading Jon away. It’s only then Jon begins to realize something again, a facet of this entire situation that he only brushed upon then steadfastly chose to ignore for his own sanity. A wedding always came with a wedding night. And Peter is leading him to his room- to their room. To their bed.

Sex. Of course, because what else is Peter getting out of this if not easy access to- to sex, to an obedient partner who owes Peter their life. Peter’s been flirtatious since they met, a fact Jon dismissed as unpleasant character quirk but clearly it meant Peter would expect this of him. He doubts claiming a headache will get very far.

They reach a new room, a larger one with a larger bed. Peter throws off his suit jacket as they enter and Jon stands in the doorway, trying to use his surroundings to distract himself for a blessed moment. There are papers on the desk, important enough looking ones, and stranger still a toy boat on one of the shelves. That fact alone makes Jon realize this must be Peter’s room, likely his room since he was a child. Does he live here now? Will they both be living here, in this awful, echoing house? Will he be alone here when Peter’s off at sea, left to the mercies of the hunger in the walls?

Jon walks in with shaking steps, pulling off his tie and unbuttoning his vest as Peter tells him to make himself at home. Somehow the sex aspect is now the better distraction. He wonders if Peter knows he’s a virgin, surely that’d amuse him to no end. For a long time, since high school to his teenage years, the idea of sex disgusted him. Georgie was blessedly fine with his aversion, and aside from a few risque touches here and there they never went farther than kissing.

In the recent year he considered it- sex, that is- out of curiosity rather than any actual desire. His disgust waned enough he even played with the idea of asking Georgie to try, though his nerves never allowed him to speak his mind on the matter. He couldn’t handle disappointing her, or trying it, having her enjoy it and finding he never wanted to again. She’d never make him but it just felt safer never to try.

Lord knows he regrets that now, faced with the current situation. He exhales- it’s like a bandaid, rip it off and be done with it. Lie back and think of England, as it were.

He all but tears off his jacket and vest, feels Peter behind him like a looming predator. When he turns Peter is watching him, amused as he steps forward and puts his hands on Jon’s waist. “Allow me.”

He unbuttons Jon’s shirt deftly and Jon lets him, tries not to tense as Peter backs him to the bed. He sits on it, feeling caged and skittish as he scoots back and Peter crawls after him, too close. The headboard comes too soon and Jon’s trapped, closing his eyes as Peter's hand brushes up his chest, moving down until his palm is against Jon’s groin and Jon’s grimacing. Lie back and think of England, he reminds himself. 

Peter’s hand pulls away, and rather than return Jon’s left untouched for long enough he opens his eyes to glance up at Peter questioningly. Peter’s regarding him, a probing look that makes him look more mature than his usual demeanor entails, more like his brother. “Are you straight?”

“What?” Jon asks, surprised then annoyed. “No, not- I’m not. I’m- attraction isn’t something I… contend with. It- ” Words refuse to come and Jon shuts his mouth a moment, jaw working. “Just go on, let’s get this over with.”

Peter snorts at that, and Jon tries not to flinch as he reaches out again. This time he takes Jon chin in his hand, turning his face and regarding him like he’s studying small imperfections there. “The soul of romance, aren’t you Jon?”

And he pulls away completely, moving to sit on the bed and undo his own shoes. Jon stares at him, and when Peter doesn’t come back after pulling his socks off he asks. “Aren’t you…?”

“What, am I going to force you? If that’s what you’re into I’d be glad to play the part,” Peter answers, looking over his shoulder with a smirk to Jon’s scowl. “Otherwise it’s not really my thing.”

“Really? Surprisingly moral of you.” Jon’s aware of how incredulous he sounds, and how insulting that is. “I assumed you would consider this your due.”

“Oh don’t get me wrong Jon, it’s a preference, not a moral qualm. It’s much better when your partner wants it, better still when they fight their own wants. You lying there like dead fish is about as appealing as it sounds.”

Peter stands and Jon watches him still, torn between irritation and… relief? Gratitude? It’s unpleasant up his throat, forcing him to swallow. When Peter’s attention returns to him he feels defensive, even more so when Peter reaches down to unlace his shoes, performatively intimate as he tugs them off for Jon and smiles at him. “Maybe one of these days we’ll get you up to pretending you don’t want it rather than actually not wanting it, yeah?”

“I doubt that,” Jon shoots back, getting up and retreating to the bathroom, Peter’s chuckles following him.

It’s an obnoxiously large room and Jon sits on the lid of the tub, putting his face in his hands and breathing through a rising panic he can’t name. The feeling cracks down the middle, draining to a euphoric relief that has him laughing muffled against his palm. He almost hates Peter for this, for being reasonable rather than purely vile. It would all be so much easier if he could hate Peter, blame him in the long years to come.

He showers quickly, pulls on a robe then pajamas set aside for him. The shirt is too large, far too large, and by the look Peter’s giving him he assumes it must be Peter’s. There’s no way he’d look so pleased with himself otherwise.

Peter’s lying on the bed, pats the other side when Jon approaches. “Come on, I won’t bite, not unless you ask.”

“I won’t, thank you,” Jon answers before settling in. He tenses, expecting Peter to suddenly change his mind and pin him but Peter just turns out the light.


	5. five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> honeymoon

Jon wakes to a dull warmth beside him, pressed up against his side. His sleep-ridden mind goes to Georgie, how she’d press up against his back when they shared a bed and hold him, and if it was too hot she’d still hold his arm. He teased her over it but in truth he loved it, craved having her wrapped around him when he found his way to bed. 

All too soon his mind stirs enough to remember he’ll likely never see Georgie again, and the solid bulk is his new husband. Jon all but throws himself back, tension running up and down his back. 

Peter doesn’t so much as stir, and Jon curls up as far to the side as he can manage, heart beating too fast. Apparently Peter sleeps deeply, Jon notes, glad for it in this case. The very last thing he wants is to see the look on Peter’s face if he saw the spectacle he just made. He closes his eyes, doubting very much he’ll be able to sleep now and falls asleep fast.

The next time Jon wakes up he’s alone.

He blinks at the window, the fog a lighter grey, indicating sunlight somewhere outside. Peter’s side of the bed is cold and there’s no note, no indication of where he went. Jon huffs loudly to himself, torn between annoyance and relief. It’s not as though he wants the bastard around but he’s never going to get his questions answered at this rate.

With a sigh he gets up, Peter’s too large shirt collar falling enough to expose most of one shoulder and irritating him even more. He tugs it back in place and sets to snooping around the room now that he has the chance. Peter did say make himself at home, didn’t he? And lord knows he’s not going out into the house in his pajamas. Even if he saw no one, more likely than the alternative, it’s just too… vulnerable.

This room is a little more worn than the room they stuck him in, faint marks of being lived in that feel altogether too much like walking through a haunted house rather than someone’s bedroom. Drawers of clothes, all Peter’s size and neatly folded, books in English, French and surprisingly Japanese on the shelf, many seemingly about nautical facts or tales, history otherwise. The toy boat is the strangest thing, and Jon looks it over without touching. It’s old, old enough it must have been Peter’s when he was a child.

How old is Peter anyway, he wonders. Surely much older than Jon, though stress and premature grey had people mistaking Jon for at least a decade older than he actually is constantly. Maybe he’d outlive Peter by long enough to have a life of his own at some point. He doubts it - far more likely he’ll be culled when he ceases to be useful. That would happen long before Peter's death.

Jon sighs, pulling a book from the shelf at random- Treasure Island, not surprising given the content of the shelves. Not one of Jon’s favorites by any means but he enjoyed it when he read it through as a child, a full week of vivid images of daring adventures and pirates. A nice week, all things considered. Before spiders.

He flips it open, a little surprised to see something sketched into the corner of the page. He squints and realizes it’s an octopus, drawn by a childish hand. An amused breath leaves him, fingers grazing over the misshapen figure, trying to imagine a child growing up in this horrible house.

“You don’t waste any time, do you?” Peter asks, suddenly behind him, and Jon nearly drops the book as he spins around.

Ridiculously his instinct is to hide the book behind his back, which he does. With little else to do he stands taller, chest puffed in some hope of regaining his composure. Peter just looks down at him, amusement sparkling in hollow eyes.

“You never said I couldn’t look around,” Jon sniffs, annoyed further when that response makes Peter chuckle.

“Would you really have listened if I said not to? If we’re going to keep talking old myths we could go Pandora.”

“Hope was at the bottom of the box,” Jon answers immediately. “Do not start with the ‘curiosity killed the cat’ nonsense, I had enough of that growing up.”

“I’m sure you always told the offender ‘and satisfaction brings it back.’”

Jon really hates when Peter’s right. “There wasn’t much I could do anyway, stuck here. I don’t suppose my own clothes are too much to ask for?”

“But you look so good in mine,” Peter answers, smirking all the more when Jon can’t help a damnably pleased blush at the words, too sincere to be a joke or mockery. Again, his life would be so very much easier if Peter could be just a little more vile of a person. “I’ll have them brought here. You could just ask a servant yourself, yeah? You’re not a guest anymore.”

That surprises Jon a little and he slips away to sit on the bed, book still in his hands. “That’s… I have a lot of questions about that.”

“Then you can ask them over breakfast,” Peter interrupts, waving a hand. 

After calling a servant to bring clothes Jon gets changed and follows Peter through the house, to the large dining hall he hasn’t had much experience with yet. He’s not surprised to find them alone save a couple of servants who pour them coffee and bring them plates of steaming eggs and sausage. It’s all arranged expertly on the plate to look less pedestrian, obnoxiously skillful and unnecessary. He must be making quite a face at the sausage cut to sharp, beautiful starburst patterns because Peter snorts beside him. “Not to your liking?”

“It’s fine,” Jon mutters, taking a bite and- yes, it’s more than fine. He’s hungry enough he focuses on his meal for a few moments, only glancing away to notice Peter watching him again like a personal show for the meal. 

Jon glowers, dabbing at the corners of his mouth with a napkin and gets to business. “What happens now that we’re married? Really, what was the point of all this? I can’t give you children, I have no money or pedigree, why marry me to you? You’re the brother of the head of the house, not some distant, rowdy cousin.”

Peter watches him, chewing his too delicately arranged sausage and feeling more like a black hole than a person. It doesn’t escape Jon’s notice how much easier it is to see beyond Peter’s pretty smiles to the power underneath, or the fact it doesn’t grate against Jon’s skin in the same way. If he has to describe it he’d say that feeling of wrongness, of _other_ that once settled cold and hard in his stomach is now an understanding he wishes he didn’t have. The resonance is nearly pleasant, if he allows it.

“What do you want to happen now?” Peter asks him, and Jon scowls.

“Don’t answer a question with a question,” he snaps, and when Peter just waits expectantly he swallows his irritation and tries to figure out that answer himself. “I don’t really know. I don’t want to stay here, I’d like to be able to go out and get a job somewhere rather than be some sort of _house husband._ I suspect I’m just to be a pawn in whatever game your family plays, so I’d rather know upfront how much freedom I actually have.”

Peter chuckles, a reaction that irks Jon but doesn’t surprise him. At the very least, Jon thinks irately, he does an excellent job of amusing his new husband.

“You’re not just a pawn, not anymore than most of the family are. You’re a Lukas now, Jon,” Peter tells him as he puts down his fork. “You’re expected to be loyal to the family and loyal to your god. Reasonable enough if you ask me.”

“Loyal to what is essentially a cult and loyal to… to some sort of eldritch god far from comprehension,” Jon expounds. “Yes, that’s ‘reasonable.’”

“I can make it simpler for you, if that’s too daunting a task,” is Peter response, grasping Jon’s wrist again in a mockery of their first meeting at that awful door. Jon’s eyes dart to him, the world around them going a buzzing sort of quiet. “Be loyal to me.”

Jon’s mouth feels dry, muscles too tight. They're alone in the world and he is so very small. He clears his throat. “Was that the point of this marriage? To give you some sort of lackey?”

“Does the point matter? I know to you it does, nosy thing that you are,” Peter muses, lets go of his wrist and Jon tugs it back to his chest, feeling strangely burned. “Whatever the ‘point’ is only Nate knows. My best guess is he wanted to give me a distraction and you were as good as any. The thing about Nathaniel is it’s never that simple.

“Maybe he wanted to punish me- doubt that, he’d make a show of it then. Maybe he thinks you’ll grow to something interesting with the right pressure. Maybe this is all part of the Web’s plan. As you can see it’s a lot of maybes.”

“You really don’t care what the answer is?” Jon asks, baffled at the idea. “This is your life too, we’re stuck together now because of this.”

Peter shrugs a shoulder, picking up his coffee with all the irritating ease of a man who truly didn’t care. “I don’t see a point in struggling against the current, if you catch my drift. Here’s some advice for you, as my lovely new husband: learn to bend rather than break. You’ll last longer, and enjoy that time more too, yeah?”

Jon frowns but takes the advice for what it is, unfortunately decent. He pushes his plate away, half-eaten eggs too grey in the dim, foggy light. “Fine, if you can’t answer that you can at least answer what happens next. Are we going to live here?”

“I usually stay here a few months of the year at least, the rest are out at sea or living in London to be close to the Tundra when she’s docked.”

That answer sparks hope in Jon’s chest, a feeling he tries to keep from his eyes as he asks, “Then we can live in London, can’t we?”

“You don’t like Moorland?” Peter drawls, too knowing in his hooded gaze. Jon briefly considers the honest truth, that Moorland House made him want to scream until the sound actually broke the suffocating silence of the halls, that he’d claw his way through the walls until his fingernails split than stay here. A future here, an eternity here, is a prospect that blooms in his gut like a soundless, helpless shriek. He _can’t._

“I told you I want to work,” he answers Peter instead, stiff and stilted and obvious if the way Peter watches him is any indication. “And not as a servant or groundskeeper or whatever else is available here.”

“You could work from home,” points out Peter, and Jon pushes his restless irritation down further, fingers clenching.

“Can we live in London or not?”

Peter hums and Jon quietly prays for a yes, tense as his new husband puts his coffee down. “You can’t escape this place now Jon, not really. Even if you fled to the farthest corner of the world.”

Jon swallows, sinking dread so thick he feels he’s being pulled down into the floorboards. He knows Peter's right, but doesn't know why. “What’s happening to me?” he asks, even if he isn’t sure he wants to know the answer. “Ever since that… _initiation,_ I feel…”

“Wrong? Other? Like something’s missing?” Peter asks, all grating amusement against Jon’s mounting horror. “I told you, you’re part of the family now.”

“You know that’s not what I mean!” Jon snaps, standing on legs that feel too weak, flimsy under him. Even looming over Peter he feels small.

“Then why don’t you tell me exactly what you saw under the house?” Peter asks, placid and calm as he watches Jon’s entire body go tense, rejecting the memories. Jon tries, he does, his jaw working, mouth open then closing as he tries to form an explanation he doesn’t want to give.

Shame blooms in the hollow of his chest when he can’t, he just can’t find the words. Peter’s less smug than he expects, understanding like a teacher dealing with a small child learning his way through the obvious corners of the world. He stands, grips Jon’s chin with a thumb just under his lips, all hollow smiles.

“You get it, yeah? We’re all in this alone. If you want something you’ll have to take it.”

Jon swallows, unable to hold Peter’s gaze, instead watching Peter head back into the house. Jon tries to find his old room, a refuge now after so long stuck inside, but when he finds the door again it’s locked.

It’s with great reluctance he finds his way back to Peter’s room, and when he does the place is blessedly, damningly empty.

-

The very next day a servant wakes Jon up when the light outside is still dim enough to indicate very early indeed. Jon practically tears the man’s head off with words alone, far too selfishly satisfied with the actual fear that flickers through the servants face. That satisfaction shifts to guilt quickly as he wakes, then bafflement when the man explains a car is waiting to take him to London.

“What?” Jon asks eloquently, and the dour, paper man answers mechanically.

“Your husband left last night and called for us to bring you this morning as soon as the sun rose.”

And here Jon had been hoping Peter’s absence was an indication of what their norm would be. He’s torn between relief at getting the hell out of the house and annoyance at just… all of this. Why didn’t Peter just say they were going to London yesterday when Jon asked? Likely just to make Jon suffer, the obnoxious bastard that he was. He could hope that his discomfort yesterday made Peter have a change of heart but that’s really expecting a lot from a man who probably didn’t have one.

Jon spends most of the drive there brooding, only mildly relieved to be away from the damnable fog. He starts to realize what Peter meant by it not being so easy when the anxiety hits, the feeling of being small and vulnerable outside of unsettling walls of Moorland, free of the fog. It brings to mind the few times his childhood wanderings led him to being terrifyingly lost rather than excitedly exploring, so far from his familiar house and stern, familiar guardian, at the mercy of a large world he didn’t understand.

Maybe that’s what Peter meant, feeling _other_, because as he watches people walk down the street they seem so lifeless, so impossibly far away. He’s felt shades of this before, a disconnect from his peers that sometimes suffocated but usually eased away with a night’s sleep or a good book. Dating Georgie helped, she always had a way of bringing him out of his own head.

The lost feeling doesn’t ease by the time the car slides to a stop. Jon’s jarred from his thoughts, frowning as he finally takes in the area properly. Close to the water, right on the Thames even, in an area of London he would have assumed no one could actually live in given the prices. Surely it was all flats for extremely rich vacationers or the like, not actual people who had jobs and bills and existed outside of outlandish fantasy.

Being led inside the house- the penthouse, christ- does nothing to change his mind that this absurdity isn’t really happening. There are boxes strewn about, clean and labeled for various household purposes. Most of the place is furnished already, looking more like a magazine than a residence. Jon can’t even begin to place the style- extravagantly overpriced? His head spins as what must be a mover comes over and hands him a phone.

“Your husband told us to give you this, Mr. Lukas. It's already been set up,” the woman tells him, and before Jon can question anything she’s off with the other silent workers going through boxes. Moving them in, apparently. Jon looks down at the absurdly sleek phone just as it lights up.

“What the hell, Peter?” Jon demands as he shoves the phone to his ear, unsurprised to hear a crackle of white noise then Peter’s chuckle. 

“You don’t like it? Rather fond of the view myself.”

“I- where do I even begin?”

“Thanks would be a good start, for what a good, providing husband I am,” Peter informs him and Jon wishes his scowl could cut through phone lines.

“Oh yes, wonderful you left me agonizing yesterday then- ugh, nevermind. Is this place really necessary? And why are we moving in, I thought you said you already lived in London part of the year.”

“I usually stayed in hotels,” Peter answers, and Jon closes his eyes as he deals with just how much money Peter apparently has to waste on a whim. “Easier, less mess, but now I have a pretty little husband to take care of the homestead, don’t I?”

“I-” Jon is glad for the phone suddenly, irritated at his own predictable bluster. “I already told you I am not playing house husband.”

“Oh? Would you rather go back to Moorland then?” Peter asks as neutrally as anything, though the threat of it slides icily down Jon’s spine. “Thought so. And don’t worry Jon, if you want to get a job so badly we’ll discuss it. You’re going to need a little time before you interact with people on a regular basis again, so try to relax.”

“I’m fine, I can handle people,” Jon insists, off put when Peter laughs in return.

“It’s not you I’m concerned about. Unless you’ve changed your mind on ‘not hurting anyone?’”

Jon swallows, throat too tight. “Fine,” he concedes miserably, and Peter hums his approval.

“Just think of it as a vacation. If you’re good until I get back maybe we can go on our honeymoon.”

“I think I’ll survive without,” Jon answers testily, hanging up on Peter’s laughter.

-

The threat of his effect on people keeps Jon in the house, stuck watching the boats pass from the rooftop garden he’s taken a liking to. There was a brief time in his childhood he suffered something like agoraphobia, unable to bring himself willingly out of his room or house. Of course spiders quickly lurked in those shadows no matter what he did, proving to him nowhere in the world is truly safe. For a few weeks though his house was his whole life, his whole world, and everything outside it merely scenery.

In that way this is the same, the house becomes the whole of his world. The kitchen is fully stocked with someone coming in once a week to make the necessary refills and clean out what needs cleaning out, and more absurdly the building has a chef that is available whenever he calls. He doesn’t call, he can’t fathom living that way and really, having something to do is better than sitting around. Cooking has never been a skill or a passion, given his tendency to get distracted and accidentally burn the meal, but it’s a rather calming exercise. A distraction.

Peter left him a credit card with the note to ‘help himself’ and the necessary numbers. It takes three days before he gives up on his cold war with the card and refusal to spend Peter’s damn money, too bored to keep at it. Buying one book couldn’t hurt, that’s what he tells himself, and by the end of the second week he’s made a project of one of the spare bedrooms, turning it into an office library.

It’s not as though Peter’s ever around, and he does shoot a reluctant text to which Peter answers a day later with an affirmative and no news to when he’ll be back. Not that Jon cares, mind you. Peter is hardly what he’d consider company at all, let alone good company.

He feels weaker after leaving Moorland, the low ache of a persistent cold he can’t seem to shake. Fatigue, weakness, he feels fainter around the edges, dragged down. Even his ridiculous little library project goes unfinished when he finds putting the books away takes too much energy. 

Jon wraps himself in the covers of his bed, the one in the guest bedroom because he can’t bring himself to accept the master bedroom, the _marriage bed_, is his. It’s been two full weeks since his wedding and he spends a long evening on his phone, looking up Georgie’s social media. She’s listed as single and made only a few vague posts about a difficult time, followed by more typical snapshots of days out with friends, bad restaurants and absurd ghost tours.

It hurts like nothing else, watching the evidence of her and everyone he knew through her moving on so easily. Better this way, he tells himself, and it doesn’t ache any less.

When he wakes his energy is back, even if his mood remains low. It’s halfway through making breakfast (normal eggs and sausage, thank you) that he realizes perhaps this is what everyone always meant about feeding his god- eat or be eaten, feed or be fed upon. If the price of protecting people is a few awful nights here and there he thinks he can handle that, easily really.

What scares him is how he’ll manage to make the wound fresh anew. Eventually Georgie won’t hurt as much, his isolation won’t sting, and then what? What happens to him when his agony and fear no longer satisfy?

-

The curry is almost done when Jon feels a breath behind him and jumps at hands on his waist. His heart is still going fast when Peter asks, “So, what’s for dinner?”

“Damnit, _Peter,_” Jon hisses, tries to wiggle free and is only allowed when Peter’s apparently had his fill of looming over him to regard the curry. He turns and there’s his erstwhile husband, the same as he last saw him in Moorland. 

Well, not entirely the same, Peter has more stubble this time and his choice of clothing is… rakish, is a word for it. Untucked and unbuttoned, snug around the shoulders. It amuses Jon for a split moment that Peter seems to at least try to look presentable in Moorland House, as though he’s a little boy making sure to impress his elders.

That amusement lasts as long as Peter crowding him against the counter. “Did you miss me?”

“Is that why you left me here for weeks? So I’d miss you?” Jon sneers, shoulders rising when that only brings a spark to Peter’s eyes. “Yes Peter, shockingly when you isolate someone for weeks they’re glad for any company. You aren’t special.”

“You’re as sweet as I remember,” Peter drawls, plucking the spoon from Jon’s fingers to taste the curry. Jon’s about to hound him for that when Peter’s brow raises high. “This is pretty good.”

And Jon flushes because of course he does. He blames it entirely on being alone for so long. “Well- thank you.”

“You like being a good little house husband for me?” Peter asks, likely sensing blood in the water, and Jon shoves at his chest. It doesn’t budge Peter but it makes him feel a little better.

“If you’re staying then go set the table. You’re lucky I make enough for leftovers.”

“I live a charmed life,” Peter agrees passively, though he pauses as he steps back. “It’s just plates and a fork, right?”

“What?” Jon blinks, and Peter nods towards the dining room. “Wait, have you never set a table before?”

Peter shrugs and Jon looks up to the ceiling, wondering what exactly Lukas children are taught. Apparently not how to be a functioning adult without criminal amounts of money. “Come on, I’ll show you. But just once.”

Surprisingly Peter pays attention and sets the rest of the table, looking as though this is an amusing, peculiar experience. Jon doubts he’ll always be so helpful once the plebian novelty loses its charm, but for the moment it’ll do. Jon brings out the curry in far too expensive bowls and they sit down to eat, like a real married couple. It’s… bizarre.

“So, I assume you’ll be gone again in the morning,” Jon says, finding the peaceful quiet between them too comfortable, suspiciously so.

“If you miss me you’re going to have to do better than that to keep me around,” is Peter’s answer, and he smirks at Jon’s scowl. “You’re looking better.”

“Yes, well-” Jon starts, then frowns. “How do you know that?” When Peter shrugs Jon stabs at his rice angrily with a spoon. “Of course, ‘you just do,’ yes? Have you been watching me?”

“I hope you’re starting to see the problem with this self sacrificial act of yours,” Peter says, ignoring the question as though it never passed Jon’s lips. “Do you really care what happens to the masses? They wouldn’t care what happened to you- they didn’t care, did they?”

“Don’t,” Jon grinds his teeth, grip too tight on his spoon. Logically he knows Peter is wrong, trying to lead him morally astray, but the words sound so reasonable now. Sometimes he fears whatever was carved out of him under Moorland was part of what made him care.

“It’s only going to get worse,” Peter pushes and doesn’t even give Jon the dignity of his full attention. He speaks between bites, licking rice from the corner of his mouth. “If you keep yourself isolated like this you might make it through. Won’t be much of a life, yeah? But you’ll live. If you did get that job you want, meet people, find any sort of satisfaction from the minimal contact, you won’t last very long. You’ll be eaten from the inside out.”

“So sacrificing untold numbers of people over the course of my life is acceptable? My life is worth that carnage?” Jon snaps- tries to snap, too tired and defeated to give it the teeth it needs.

Peter finally glances over at him, a small smile on his face. “Obviously it is. Don’t you remember what I said? You only have yourself, Jon. Everything else, everyone else, is background noise.”

Jon picks up his bowl and hurries to the kitchen, refusing to deal with the topic anymore than he already has today. With the bowl put away in the sink- let Peter clean up after himself, dammit- he heads to the guest room he’s claimed for his own and flops onto the bed. 

For a traitorous few moments he imagines it, giving in and finding some poor soul to… to do whatever it is the Lukas family did to their victims. He recalls the way the servants of Moorland feared him, how it felt _good_ in a sickening way he doesn’t think entirely came from his new god. Wasn’t it nice to be the one with power, the one to be feared? After years of cowering from spiders, putting up with bullies and whispers and degradation. 

Jon takes his blanket and curls it around him, glaring at the bedroom wall. No, it couldn’t be worth it, no matter how strained his connection to the world seems now. If he did wilt away into nothing then… well, that was one less proto-monster in the world.

-

Jon wakes halfway through the morning, head full of cotton from too much sleep. He snorts to himself as he sits up, who would have thought his insomnia would be solved by the aching depression of isolation? Without a schedule to follow the days seem strange anyway as they pass him by, no clear time to wake or go to bed. 

He takes a shower in the glass encased stall bigger than the bathroom at his old place, robe tied snuggly around the waist as he goes back into the guest room to find all of his drawers are empty. It takes several frantic minutes of searching before he’s rushing out of the room, finding Peter sitting on the sofa, snug with a cup of coffee and a plate of scones they definitely didn’t have before.

“Why are you still here?” Jon asks, frowning when Peter just looks over in blatant amusement. “Nevermind, where are my clothes?”

“Good morning, my darling,” Peter answers, turned back to the papers in his lap. “You’re going to hurt my feelings if you keep sleeping in the guest room. Wasn’t I perfect gentleman before?”

Jon storms over, snatching the paper from his hands. “My _clothes._”

It’s then he realizes that maybe this is a mistake, putting his precariously clothed self within easy reach of Peter Lukas. He yelps when Peter tugs at the cloth tied to hold his robe closed, drawing Jon practically in his lap. He uses Jon’s surprise to his advantage, snatching the paper back and smiling up at Jon. His damned knee is between Jon’s thighs, almost opening his robe, and his grip on the cloth sash means pulling away will likely open it.

Of course Peter looks like the cat with canary feathers sticking to his maw. “What was that?”

“My- my clothes, you brute,” Jon manages, and when Peter loosens his grip Jon pulls himself away as quickly as he can manage, holding his robe in close.

“Ah, those. Yes, I got rid of them.”

“You _what?_” Jon snaps, red faced and tense.

Peter leans back, arms stretching over his head, the picture of early morning calm. “They’re dowdy and don’t fit you well. Don’t worry, your new wardrobe will be here this evening.”

“You can’t- you can’t just-” Jon tries, resisting the urge to just reach out and try strangling Peter. “I don’t need new clothes, I don’t even go out! And for that matter what am I supposed to wear now?”

“You could always borrow something of mine again,” Peter’s tone is so easily salacious he wears it like a second skin, mild and invasive. He looks Jon over then continues, “Of course if you want to go a little risque around the house until then I won’t be bothered.”

Peter _winks_ at him and that’s as much as Jon can take, storming back off to his bedroom.

He doesn’t stay there long, mostly because he’s sick of stomping off to his room every time Peter riles him. The building has a laundry service, complete with a chute that Jon foolishly put his clothes from the morning in, so he’s left with either robes or Peter’s clothes. It is with great prejudice that he goes into the master bedroom to steal a shirt and whatever pants will fit.

Only none of the pants fit, because even if Jon was healthier, bulkier and all together _more_ in most areas Peter is large. He feels like a child putting on his father’s clothes just trying to find something, and he curses Peter under his breath until he finds a pair of slacks much too small for Peter. Jon squints at them, holding them out suspiciously, inspecting the fine material. Maybe Peter was sent the wrong size, either way Jon puts them on, rolls up the sleeves to the too large sweater and heads out.

Peter whistles, because of course he does. “See? Was that so hard?”

“We are going to have a very long discussion about personal boundaries,” Jon shoots back, and Peter’s amusement tells him all he needs to know about how seriously that will be taken. 

Jon considers trying to question Peter some more, even just to have a discussion after weeks without. Their talks so far weigh heavily on him and he retreats to the rooftop garden, sitting heavily on one of the low benches and looking out at the Thames.

Just having Peter back makes the house feel just as empty as before, as if nothing substantial exists within its walls. That used to scare him about Peter, about all the Lukases, though now he just wonders if he’s the same. He must be, the maids and housekeepers all jump when he enters the room, as if he appears as suddenly as he vanishes again. Once he sat at the table with his coffee and watched a man clean the kitchen for ten minutes without ever being noticed. He wanted to call out, to prove he existed, but he was too afraid of doing so and proving he wasn’t really there at all.

What was the point of all this, he wonders, if he’s just become the living dead? He’s a ghost in his own house, stuck until Peter and the Lukas family lose their patience and cull him. He should have ran, saw the world, tried to live his life as long as he could before the spiders caught him. At least then he’d have a life, even for a short time.

-

The clothes are delivered on time but Jon ignores them until well into the next morning. They’ve already been unpacked into the massive walk in closet of the master, and like a bloodhound Peter finds his way over as soon as Jon finally breaks down to look. No amount of snapping will get Peter to leave his lounging on the bed so Jon rolls his eyes, closes the closet door and ignores him.

When he comes out again he’s even less happy than before. “These are too small!”

“They’re fitted,” Peter answers, eyeing him up and down, unperturbed by Jon’s glaring effort to burn a hole in his skull. “You have worn fitted clothes before, haven’t you? No? Poor thing.”

“_Fitted_,” Jon spits, looking to the overly large mirror with a frown. He hates that Peter is right, they are fitted as perfectly to his frame as the wedding suit was- they even compliment his _complexion,_ as though Jon has ever been the type of person to compliment his damn complexion. 

This particular outfit is at least not too overtly bizarre as the others he’s investigated only briefly (_patterns_ and bright pops of color and silk shirts, as though Jon would ever-) The slacks are long and dark, a little too high on his waist but he thinks that must be purposeful. The shirt buttons up and looks fine untucked or tucked, refusing to allow Jon to try and ruin Peter’s design. He settles for tucking it and unlike the pants it’s too big- again he assumes pointedly so.

He looks absolutely ridiculous, he decides, and vows to buy proper clothes he can hide away from Peter.

“I don’t even go out, what’s the point of this?” he finally settles on, looking back over to Peter still obnoxiously pleased with himself on the bed.

“You’re a Lukas now, you need to be presentable,” is Peter’s answer. “Besides, if I’m the only one looking at you I deserve a treat, don’t I?”

“You do not,” Jon grumbles, fidgeting with collar before giving up. Peter gets up, walks right into his space and unbuttons the top two buttons of Jon’s shirt like he’s some sort of art project.

Jon buttons them right back up with a defiant look. Peter laughs, then quickly tugs until both buttons strain and pop right off the shirt. “Peter!”

“Much better,” he says pleasantly. “So, what’s for lunch?”

When Jon refuses to cook for out of principal Peter calls their chef (their _chef_) and the table is soon set with soup and sandwiches. Boredom leads Jon to join him rather than sulk, desperate for any sort of conversation to fill his time. 

“Is there something I can do for the Lonely that isn’t destructive?” he asks eventually, stirring his soup as Peter regards him curiously. “I’m sick of being stuck up here all day, I’ll stay away from people but give me something to do.”

“I thought you were busy languishing in your self sacrifice. Full time job, yeah?”

Jon gives him a sharp look for that. “You’re not funny. I’m serious, is there something or not?”

Peter hums, considering as he chews the corner of a cheese sandwich. “I could take you to see the Tundra.”

“That’s your ship, isn’t it?” Jon asks, and Peter looks pleased as he nods. “I am not going to swab the deck of your ship, that isn’t exactly what I had in mind.”

“Beggars can’t be choosers,” Peter points out, chuckling at the unimpressed look Jon gives in return. “I meant more you can come visit, get you out of the house and so forth.”

Jon feels far too much like Peter’s equating him to a dog that needs walking, a fact he’d usually have a great many comments for if he wasn’t so stir crazy he thinks he’ll start climbing the walls.

“The Tundra then,” he sighs, surprised when Peter perks up minutely. It’s strange how much easier it is to read Peter now that he looks, really looks. Expecting humanity makes Peter seem unreadable, a placid mask. Expecting a dark well with occasional glimmers of light from shiny bits at the bottom, that’s closer to Peter Lukas. “When?”

“Tonight,” Peter settles, and Jon nods, hoping he can change his shirt without losing more buttons to Peter’s whims.

-

Jon chides himself for expecting an old wooden ship out of a period piece. Of course the Tundra is a cargo ship, large and boxy and metal, impressive in size but not particularly pleasing to the eye. He’s spent most of the trip wondering why Peter’s taking him here, half convinced now that Peter is going to trap him on board to scrub the decks. 

It makes him antsy as they step out of the sleek black car and onto the dock proper, wind whipping at their skin, salt and chill. Jon will give Peter’s ambushed wardrobe this much, the coat Jon plucked at random is large and warm, a faint checkered pattern on light grey. It’s something he’d actually pick out himself, or would if it weren’t for the label proclaiming it Gucci. Even he knows that means it’s more money than it’s worth.

Rather than step onboard Peter stops to survey the ship critically. Jon stops beside him, regarding the Tundra only a moment before looking to Peter instead, much more interesting than a creaking old cargo ship. He’s surprised to see that glimmer at the bottom of the well again, a hint of something around Peter’s eyes that takes him a few moments to guess at- pride, it seems like. The quiet warmth of satisfaction.

He actually likes his ship, Jon realizes with a start. The man who keeps flaunting money like it’s nothing and was born richer than sin loves this dull, massive metal coffin on the water.

Something must show on his face because Peter looks over at him, brow raised. Despite what many thought he doesn’t actually enjoy hurting people’s feelings, even though he did so often enough it’s fair to assume he does. He marvels at the fact he thinks he could actually hurt Peter’s feelings right now. Probably not enough to make even the barest dent, but he could.

“It’s… large. I didn’t know it was a cargo ship,” he tells Peter, a neutral enough response that has Peter snorting.

“Were you expecting something fancier? C’mon.” Peter takes his arm and Jon sighs, allowing himself to be led rather than jerking away just this once. For the best, given how slippery the ground is. He didn’t come this far to slip and drown in the disgusting waters around London.

Once on board the ship he starts to feel a pressure, not entirely unlike Moorland but less… alive. For once Peter is forthcoming. “She’s seen a lot of strangeness, even before my family scooped her up. Might as well be an artifact proper.”

“So she’s… what, intuned with Isolation?” Jon asks, walking over to the side to look down at the dark water below before pulling back to face Peter.

Peter pats one of the walls fondly, like a loyal old dog. “Do you think clean classifications really exist like that?”

“I can hope,” Jon replies dryly, following Peter through one of the small metal doors. 

Despite being too big for the ship Peter moves easily through it, practiced in the space. He gives a decent tour, all things considered, pointing out hallways and the function of certain paces, answering questions and surprisingly professional. On the ship he transforms, quieter, more dire but head to toe a captain. It seems easy for him, slipping off one human suit for another. Jon has no idea which is more Peter, if either are.

They stop at Peter’s office, a small room with a desk covered in paperwork. No computers, which surprises Jon a little. When he asks Peter shrugs and tells him he prefers the old way of things.

“Whatever I need input into a database or emailed I leave for Thaddeus,” Peter tells him, and Jon can’t help but stare at the spreadsheets before him. “Something interesting about my accounts, dear?”

“Don’t call me that,” Jon huffs, but he looks up at Peter, considers him for a few moments before admitting. “I’m surprised, I suppose. I didn’t expect this.”

Peter chuckles. “The dull life of the cargo captain? Not as many monsters as you thought?”

“No, just- you. You actually put an effort into this,” Jon answers, and Peter’s silence makes him nervous enough to continue. “To be entirely honest I expected you to be a spoiled, sociopathic brat incapable of taking anything seriously except your god. This is actual work, which you seem to do yourself and even take pride in. I’m… impressed.”

Peter watches him, this time the well of his expression truly unreadable, leaving Jon to fidget behind the desk. Wonderful, if he insulted him properly somehow it’s entirely likely Peter will do something dreadful to him in return. Rather than try to apologize he can’t help but add, “It was a low bar to begin with.”

Apparently that’s the right thing to say, because Peter laughs, a sharp, unpleasant sound like gravel digging into a wound. He’s looking at Jon again but the intensity is replaced with an easier curiosity. Jon releases a breath he knew very well he’s been holding. 

“I can show you my cabin next,” Peter says, sliding around the desk and grinning when Jon backs away.

“No thank you, I’d rather see the engines.”

Thankfully Peter’s happy to show him rather than push any playful, biting flirting. When they drive back to the house later that night Jon wonders what Peter would have been like born to a real family, if he ever had a chance at all to be anything other than a monster.

The thought is a dangerous one, and he pushes it aside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you big time to tk for talking fashion to me so i could give more details than 'jon wore nicer pants now'
> 
> if you want to hate peter with me here's my inspiration for peter's new place https://www.knightfrank.co.uk/properties/residential/for-sale/tudor-house-one-tower-bridge-duchess-walk-london-se1/CNW170134


	6. six

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> discovery

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning for Corruption stuff, millipedes and millipede body horror

It was only a matter of time before Jon’s boredom outgrew his caution. 

He could blame it a little on Peter taking him out to the Tundra, an outing that ended up both interesting and victimless. Peter never said he couldn’t go out, just that it might be dangerous to others if he did. And really, if Peter did forbid him that wouldn’t stop him. He isn’t Peter’s pet dog left to guard the house, they’re… partners. Or something like it. Lord knew what.

So one day he gets dressed in one of the ridiculous outfits Peter bought for him and just… goes. Down the elevator, through the front doors and out into the sidewalk. He stands there for too long, people moving past him like river water around a rock. They don’t even look at him, no angry glances or questioning stares, they just pass and leave Jon to savour the sunlight and late morning chill.

It should alarm him, it does in a theoretical sense, but more than anything Jon finds himself relieved to be ignored. It makes him feel free in a way he isn’t used to, and he wonders if there will be a time his gnawing need for contact is replaced entirely by this calm. He wonders if he wants it to be.

He walks cautiously down the street, afraid to break the spell and suddenly have eyes dragging over him, questioning his pallor and budding inhumanity. Peter picked a location worth its weight in gold, close to all sorts of interesting, well to do places. Restaurants don’t interest him, shops only in passing, but there’s an art gallery that catches his eye. He’s never cared all that much for such things before but it seems an easy afternoon, something to do out but close to the house. A curiosity, as it were.

If there’s a fee for entering no one asks it of him, and Jon walks past the front desk and out into the gallery proper. It’s a larger place than he expected from the outside, going deep rather than wide and littered with unnecessary walls solely to hang art. 

Mostly it’s paintings, though a few statues and other 3d art stand proudly in the center of rooms. He’s so used to museums he’s surprised to see price tags or little signs reminding the viewer to ask if they’re interested in purchase. What prices he sees make him snort, unsurprisingly extravagant given the area. He supposes they need to meet their rent somehow.

He passes the more modern art into the back rooms, noting a painting of a large ship amidst a storm near the back wall. When he gets closer he can make out the texture of the paint, thick and dabbed liberally, giving the slightest impression of the waves trying to reach off the canvas. It’s not exactly Jon’s taste but it amuses him a moment to think of Peter, think of buying this no doubt highly priced piece just to see how Peter would react to find it hanging in their living area. It may be worth it to be the one to surprise Peter just this once.

It surprises him to seriously consider it, his thoughts only shifting when something tugs at his attention from across the room. He turns to see an older man staring at another painting by the same artist, this one of a long field and a dark forest just beyond it, all surrounded by a grey, rolling sky. The old man isn’t doing anything worth his attention, just regarding the painting with dim, far away eyes, dragging Jon’s attention like a moth to a flame. He doesn’t understand, turning away from the ship to get a better look at the old man, and then he suddenly does.

The man is achingly lonely, he’s exuding it so strongly Jon swears he can feel it against his skin like the fog around Moorland House. A breath catches in Jon’s throat, compelled by this random stranger just staring at a landscape. He can almost see the line of the man’s thoughts, everything he’s lost, how much he’s lost, how little there is left and how he misses what he once had, the people he loved, the people he pushed away and still loves, the people who won’t look at him, won’t talk to him, forget him as he waits and prays for the next day to be better.

Jon swallows, wanting nothing more than to go over to that man and- and what? He feels there’s something under his skin that wants to devour, that wants to press that man into the painting until he gets his wish to be looked at every day but without substance, without the connection he wants. He wants to swallow the old man up in fog and let him face the rest of his impossibly empty life, fear rising until it ripens beautifully.

It takes an effort to tear his gaze away, fingers trembling as he hurries out of the gallery. His legs feel weak, all of him feels weak as he hurries back up to his house, his empty living space with its expensive views. He’s shaking still as he climbs into bed- the master bedroom’s bed, a place he started sleeping in when Peter’s away for reasons he’s not sure of. 

This time he doesn’t wrap himself in blankets, just stares up at the ceiling and lets his body sink into the mattress then further down, until he feels like doesn’t exist in his own skin. He closes his eyes and fears himself, especially the part of him that wonders if it would really have been so terrible to cull one lonely old man.

-

Peter shows up again one afternoon shortly after Jon’s outing, taking up the desk in the library Jon set up as though he owned the place. Well alright, he did own the place, but Jon reserves the right to be irritated by Peter’s presumption to the one room Jon put a true personal touch in.

He doesn’t comment on it and Peter says nothing about his time out of the apartment, leaving Jon to hope maybe he didn’t know. Since that day Jon feels weak, like he’s fighting the tail end of a flu and every muscle in his body wants nothing more than to sleep even as his mind rebels. It’s become easier to tell when his new god is draining him for his lack of proper feeding, and Jon does everything he can to make sure he doesn’t show it.

Peter’s too busy to even look at him, and he’s glad for it even as it annoys him to be so summarily ignored.

Peter really doesn’t deserve a homemade lunch but Jon sighs and decides to make him something anyway while he’s already attempting to build his own meal. His cooking always did end up better when he cooked for someone else, his pride forcing his attention to detail to work for him rather than drift away to more interesting topics. By the time he’s nearly done the kitchen smells pleasantly of garlic and Peter pokes his head in, likely to mock.

“If you want any of this you’ll be quiet and set the table,” Jon tells him without bothering to look, hearing a chuckle and the eventual clattering of silverware for his efforts. He smiles before he catches himself, shakes his head and plates the meal to bring out to the dining area.

It’s just a simple garlic chicken and some salad, the sort of thing his grandmother made with not nearly enough spice when he was younger. He learned not to complain or critique eventually, though when Peter looks like he’s enjoying his first bite Jon takes a vindictive moment to aim an ‘I told you so’ towards his memory of his grandmother’s stern face.

“Where do you go when you vanish for days?” Jon asks while Peter’s a somewhat captive audience. “You can’t be away on your ship, it would take longer than that for a voyage.”

“Not all voyages,” Peter answers him, the same old amusement of a pet owner watching their dog do something predictable and cute. It raises Jon’s hackles usually, though today he’s simply too tired to start a fight.

“Fine, if you won’t answer that then tell me more about the domains. You must have seen examples of them from time to time.”

That makes Peter laughs, a low breath as he forks more chicken into his mouth. At least he seems to consider Jon’s question, or consider Jon himself really. “You have a good enough working knowledge. Given how squeamish you get I doubt you’ll need to learn more, yeah?”

“But I might,” Jon protests. “Besides, I’m not opposed to helping your- the family to some extent, as long as it’s not with a body count. Information can only make that easier.”

“Keep telling yourself that.” Peter leans back and Jon expects he’ll get up and walk away, leaving Jon with his questions. He’s pleasantly surprised when Peter answers instead. “Are you asking for horror stories over dinner?”

“No, not exactly.” Jon doesn’t know what to start with, now that the matter is in the open. He has so many questions his own investigations never appeased.

He decides to settle for one that’s bothered him for a while. “Are Isolation and the Web enemies? You did take me from under their nose.”

“No, not really, not anymore enemies than any domain is to another,” Peter answers with his easy confidence, and Jon imagines it truly is easy for him. The powers have been his whole life. “The Web is an outlier more than most, only Terminus beats it there.”

“Terminus? Death? I’ve never heard it called that.”

“Because your sources aren’t very cultured,” Peter answers, amused when irritation flashes over Jon’s face at that. “It’s an old name.”

Jon nods then asks, “What do you mean by outlier?”

“You really never stop,” Peter breaths, then leans forward. “Tell you what, you make me a drink like a good little husband and I’ll continue.”

Jon prickles predictably. He’s standing even as he says, “I suppose it’s too much to ask you to be helpful without a price.”

“Scotch on the rocks, thanks,” answers Peter, and Jon glares before going to the liquor cabinet.

He comes back with two glasses, a gin and tonic for himself and Peter’s scotch, all alcohol worth more than his yearly rent before all this, he’s sure. He places the scotch next to Peter and sits, pinning him with an expectant look.

Peter winks and takes a sip, sitting back again with the lazy grace of a large predator. “Outlier meaning they aren’t interested in shaping the world as much as the other domains are. Death doesn’t need to, and the Web is happy with how things are. The rest of us lot are a little more hands on.”

“Shaping the world?” Jon asks, but Peter waves a hand and continues on the original topic.

“The Web and the Lonely always got along pretty well, really. Nothing adds a hint of loneliness to a scene like cobwebs in the corner, yeah? Wouldn’t call them an ally but our interests align more than they don’t. Isolation is a powerful tool for manipulation.”

Jon swallows, a spike of fear lancing through tired muscles and limbs. “Then why did they let you convert me?”

“Don’t know. Maybe you legitimately surprised them and it was too late by the time they realized you were gone. Maybe you weren’t worth getting into trouble with my family. Maybe they’re biding their time, waiting for you to weaken enough through this self sacrificial act of yours to snatch you up.” Peter twirls the liquid of his glass, infuriatingly calm. “Maybe this was all part of their plan. Hard to tell with them, they like to set their pieces up for very long games.”

“That’s-” Jon starts then looks away, unease heavy in his gut. A gulp of expensive gin does nothing to loosen the knot. He hopes that the damned Isolation is at least feeding on this fear enough to give him a break. 

He places his glass down, decides instead to indulge in distraction. “What about the others then? Who are allies?”

“And what’s in it for me if I indulge your curiosity?” Peter asks, predictable in his selfishness.

Jon scowls. “A refill.”

“Cute, but not going to cut it.”

“What do you want then?” Jon sighs, not sure what to expect. He didn’t have much to give Peter and what little he did have he isn’t about to part with. He suspects this is mostly teasing, that Peter will ask for more meals served to him or something like it, as though Jon’s his glorified chef and waiter in one.

Instead Peter smiles at him the way he always does, with nothing at all behind his eyes. “I want a kiss.”

Jon blinks, surprise stealing an immediate reply to that. “What? Why?” he can’t help but blurt out.

“You really can’t help yourself, can you? You’re already paying for one answer, do you really want to start up a debt?” Peter points out and irritation helps clear Jon’s head.

He’s going to say no, of course. Peter’s up to something, either nefarious in nature or pigtail pulling like the overgrown bully he is, and Jon wants no part of it. Giving in now would just tell Peter he is susceptible to Peter’s games, set a precedent Jon refuses to live with. He should stand his ground now and make a point. He has years still to learn what he wants of the domains.

Instead he stands, walking to the side of Peter’s chair and inhaling sharply when Peter grabs his wrist. “Don’t think you can get away with a kiss on the cheek either. You know what I want.”

“You weren’t clear,” Jon protests, hesitating as he looks down at Peter. The clean shave Peter had when they met is a hearty stubble now, his eyes still dark and empty. He’s a little surprised to see they’re blue under the shadows and deep pupils, not just black pits set into his face. 

Jon wonders if Peter could ever tan, if he had to wear lotion to keep from burning under the hot sun when he’s out on deck. The image of something as human and vulnerable as a sunburn makes it easier to lean in.

Peter takes a mile for the inch offered, releasing Jon’s wrist to wrap around his waist and pull him practically on Peter’s lap. Jon considers giving nothing, staying still and letting Peter’s lips move fruitlessly against him, but it’s… nice. Peter’s warmer than he remembers, or perhaps Jon’s colder now, their temperatures meshing. Jon responds to Peter’s firm, coaxing attempts. Later he can tell himself it was to make sure Peter couldn’t say the kiss didn’t count.

Jon’s always enjoyed kissing Georgie after the first few awkward attempts, liked the contact and connection. Peter is hard in the places Georgie was soft, sharp in the ways she was careful. They were both so new to romance in their own ways, he and Georgie, new to each other and cautious of boundaries. Peter has no boundaries and thinks very little of Jon’s, his broad hand dipping under Jon’s shirt to his lower back. That’s surprisingly nice too.

When Jon pulls back his hands are on Peter’s shoulders, staring down at how Peter’s bloodless lips have a touch of color in them now. It’s more intimate than that vulnerable idea of sunburn and Jon can’t tear his gaze away easily, eyes only straying when Peter says, “I didn’t think you’d be even halfway decent at that. Color me surprised, Jon. You’ve been holding out on me.”

With the spell broken Jon huffs and pulls away, drops back down to his seat and unconsciously licks the lingering scotch taste off his lips. Peter follows the motion with a resounding smugness that reminds Jon just what a poor idea that was. He suspects he’ll be dealing with Peter’s amusement for a while still.

“Where’s my answer?” he demands, and Peter laughs.

“Have to bribe a kiss from my own husband, what a world. Baby steps, yeah?” he muses, and Jon bites his lip rather than ask Peter where exactly he thinks those baby steps are going to lead. “We have a few steadfast allies, mostly the Vast and the Eye. We work with the Dark and the People’s Church from time to time, but they’re a fanatical bunch.”

“And you aren’t?” Jon asks, recovering from the irritatingly pleasant tingle under his skin as he listens.

“Not the way they are. They get… hm, religious with it. Leaves a poor taste in my mouth.”

“I’m not sure what you’d call your devotion if not that,” answers Jon dryly.

Peter shrugs. “If we have a god he isn’t there. He’s never been there. He abandoned us long before we bent knee to him.”

The words ring in the hollow bits of Jon, uncomfortable and piercing. “What about enemies then?” he asks in an attempt to change the subject.

“Comes and goes. The Hunt, obviously, or more hunters. You’re still weak enough they won’t pick up your scent but if they did figure you out it wouldn’t take much,” Peter explains. Jon thinks back to what little he heard about the Hunt- basically nothing, only its designation in Smirke’s fourteen. He opens his mouth to ask more but Peter continues, “The real problem lately has been Filth.”

“Filth… Corruption?” Jon asks and Peter nods. “Bugs, rot and disease. Why would that be an enemy to Isolation?”

“Like I said, most of the domains have reason to butt heads, but the Filth is a special case, especially the living hives. That lot have a sense of community that our lot doesn’t care for.” Peter glances over to take in Jon’s furrowed brow and leans in with a smile. “Think of it like this, the Filth needs closeness to spread. It seduces people to hollow themselves out into homes for creeping, crawling little beasts by giving them a sense of belonging. A hive is never alone, and disease spreads best in crowds.”

“That’s… unpleasant,” Jon murmurs, and Peter’s look of total agreement tells Jon they’re probably talking about different aspects. “Is this something we need to worry about?”

“You should be fine, as long as you stay put. Avoid it otherwise, I’d rather not deal with a spouse infected with worms,” is Peter’s answer, winking as Jon scowls. “Any other questions?”

“That’s surprisingly forthcoming of you- unless you’re expecting payment again,” Jon says, and Peter gives him a look that tells him payment would very much be expected. “No, I think that’s enough for one evening, thank you.”

“Suit yourself,” Peter shrugs. He’s gone when Jon looks up from his drink and half finished meal, leaving his own dish and empty glass behind.

Typical, Jon thinks as he stands up to clean their plates. Even leaving his dirty dishes behind has to be done with menacing drama.

-

Maybe it’s their conversation that night that has Jon noticing little things he didn’t before. It starts with the housekeepers and various staff of the building, the few people he sees at least on occasion. They’re an unremarkable bunch save for a woman who always catches him when he looks at her. He’s gotten used to not being noticed, to staring openly without anyone around being the wiser, so the way she always sees him doing so and glances away in fear is novel, if not unnerving.

It takes him a few encounters to realize she isn’t afraid of him so much as she’s afraid of being watched. It clicks into place when she has the same reaction to a bird at the window of all things, resting on the ledge outside. A fear of being watched, he thinks, and wonders if the Eye did something to her like the Web did to him so long ago. He should feel sympathy, he knows, but mostly he’s just curious.

This new tendency to look for the powers in the world around him extends to his eventual trips outside the house again. Building up the nerve to do so again after the gallery takes several days but eventually his boredom overcomes his fear and his fears feed his ‘god’ enough to ease the weakening of his body. He avoids the art gallery but goes to a corner cafe and buys a black coffee and a scone. Neither are as good as what he can find in his own kitchen but they’re wonderful regardless, if only for the fresh street air he breathes between bites.

That trip he’s dwelling on his life, the new shape of it, the ebb and flow. So far it’s hiding in his home, steadily growing weaker until sharp, unbearable bursts of fear bring him enough strength to keep going. He wonders if it’s like this for all the Lukas family, surely not all of them travel the world, searching for ways to feed their god. 

His thoughts are broken when he notices a man on the corner, scratching viciously at his neck. There’s something in the movement that’s unsettling, the kind of fervor that tore through skin. The fabric along his back squirms and the man keeps walking. Jon’s gaze follows him down the street until he vanishes around a corner.

Later that night he mentions as much to Peter.

“Sharp eyed, aren’t you?” Peter drawls, running a towel over his hair. They’re in the master bedroom, Jon seated on the bed and Peter finishing his nightly routine. It’s almost domestic, and Jon ignores that fact steadily. He’s more interested in how Peter doesn’t comment on his leaving the house.

“It’s Corruption, isn’t it?” 

“Could be Flesh,” Peter shrugs, tossing the towel aside for a housekeeper to clean in the morning. Jon fidgets with the need to pick it up and put it in the hamper. He suspects Peter realizes as much and takes great joy from it. “Could be Spiral, could be a lot of things.”

“Helpful,” Jon sighs, watching as Peter walks over to smirk down at him.

“I’ll tell you what I think if you sleep here tonight,” Peter offers. It’s a further pushing of boundaries, one that means far more to Jon than it ever will Peter.

Jon frowns, glancing over the enormous bed, mind made up long before he speaks. “Just sleeping?”

“I’ll be a perfect gentleman.”

“Fine,” Jon answers, trying for unaffected even as his tense shoulders give him away. “Well?”

“Well,” Peter starts, taking his place on the bed and patting the empty side expectantly. Jon rolls his eyes but crawls over, avoiding Peter’s amused gaze. “I think it is a hive. There’s been a few infestations around the city, each nastier than the next. You probably saw the early stages of one, where it’s still taking root.”

Jon considers that, wondering what manner of creature might have been growing under that man’s skin. For the first time since Moorland he feels grateful he ended up with Isolation rather than that alternative. “Unsettling.”

“Stay away from those,” Peter says, surprisingly firm even through his placid look. Jon gives him and unimpressed look for his trouble. Of course he would, he has not interest in poking at bugs like a child.

They go to sleep, Jon as far to the side as he can manage. By the middle of the night he wakes to find himself against Peter, warmer than he remembers being in some time. Peter is firm and Jon lets himself place a hand over Peter’s chest, fingers spreading as he feels Peter’s heartbeat beneath his palm. It’s steady and human, a quiet thump he falls asleep to.

Peter isn’t there in the morning, and Jon irritates himself by finding that disappointing.

-

Going to the little corner cafe becomes a habit in an attempt to keep himself sane. The baristas never seem to recognize him, a fact Jon is grateful for when he ignores the disturbing implications. He never enjoyed the small talk of acquaintances, the obligation of familiarity. Maybe he should treasure what few conversations he still has but they feel so paper thin, props in the set dressing to a life that isn’t his.

By the time he sees the man again he’s changed. He wears a scarf in temperate weather, still scratching at his neck through it. Jon doesn’t notice any bulges under his clothes but his clothes are thicker now.

Peter’s warning rings through his head as he sees the man walk the same route, around the same corner. Jon stands, telling himself he’d just peek around the corner, get a sense of what a living hive even did in the day to day. To his credit that’s all he does that day, reaching the corner and watching the man make his way around another turn.

The next time he sees the man he isn’t quite so careful.

He follows the man from the get go, only a few paces behind him as he turns the same corner and makes his way down the street. That first turn ends up being an alley behind what looks like a bar of sorts, clean enough but damp with morning rain and dark, tall brick walls hiding it from the sun. Jon knows enough to realize he should turn around now, but the hive man is going down a set of stairs next to one of the buildings and Jon follows, notices the door has signs of the lock being broken. 

An aged, yellow sign on the door says NO TRESPASSING, and the door itself creaks when Jon opens it. He stands frozen in the doorway, waiting for detection, but is answered by silence instead.

There’s a long hall to a basement area, storage and empty space. Jon creeps down it, heart hammering and finally asking himself what he thinks he’s doing. He just wants a peek, to see if the man is living here or using the space in some other way, if he’s doing something nefarious or simply living in the strange halfway Jon is. He tells himself at least this could be useful, reporting back to Peter. Maybe that would count as feeding, though he doubts the eldritch creature burrowed into him cares much for favors.

One door is left ajar and Jon heads to it, trying to peer into the small space to get an idea of the room. He sees nothing much, just more damp dark, and risks pushing the door open lightly.

It creaks predictably, and when the dim light of the hall illuminates the room he sees more than one set of eyes boring into him. It takes a sick, lurching moment to realize only one of those pairs of eyes is still alive.

Several bodies lie in a small heap against the far wall and each face is turned to him, staring unblinking and cloudy. He can’t make out details but the stench tells him most of what he needs to know, as does the way something moves in the pile, scuttering through. The man from the corner no longer has his scarf and his neck is covered in puffy, swollen skin.

A millipede of considerable length crawls over that discolored skin, answering any questions Jon had about what manner of insect he’s dealing with.

“Have you come to join us?” the man asks, voice a low and misused rasp, hopeful around the edges as though Jon is a new friend in the making. 

“No, no, just… passing through,” Jon tries, taking a step back. There’s a crunch under his polished, expensive shoes, and he looks down in time to see something long slip under his pant leg. He starts to shake his leg, panicked at getting the pinprick legs off when everything is pain.

He can’t even make a sound, falling to his knees as every nerve in his calf lights on fire. The man steps closer as Jon tries to regulate his breathing, sympathetic as he tells Jon, “Their bites are agonizing. Close your eyes, it will go away soon.”

He’s pulling Jon to a corner, dodging in and out of Jon’s swimming vision when he says, “You’ll like it here.” 

Jon’s eyes close and for the moment the pain goes away.

-

Moorland at least never physically hurt. It’s a strange thought to have as he wakes, entire body now dull with pain and aching like an open wound. Jon glances down and notices one of his hands peppered in bites, swollen and stiff and off color. He tears his gaze away, unwilling to see what else has been done to him. Of course that brings his gaze directly in line with the pile of corpses still watching him.

He swallows down bile, tries to shift and finds his body refuses to move without extraordinary pain. What his movement does do is alert his new captor, the man turning to him with a bright smile before looking back into a rusted bucket. Jon doesn’t want to know what’s going on in there.

What does surprise him is another pair of feet in his blurring vision, standing in the opposite corner. He lifts his forehead off the floor, following the line of figure’s legs to find- “Peter.”

His relief is palpable, the first feeling other than dread, fear or pain since he’s woken up. It doesn’t last because Peter doesn’t move to help him, just tilts his head and regards him with grating pity.

“I told you not to follow,” Peter tuts, and Jon has to swallow more bile to answer.

“Your point is made, now just- help me,” he asks, the sinking in his gut reaching new depths when Peter chuckles.

“What will you learn then? You need to get yourself out of this situation,” Peter tells him, and Jon notices for the first time the man doesn’t seem to notice Peter. He looks up when Jon speaks then at the corner Peter stands in but looks past Peter, going back to his bucket with a shake of the head. He must think Jon is hallucinating. Jon wonders if he is.

“Honestly Jon, this is the way of things, yeah? All you really have is yourself,” Peter continues, leaving Jon to stare at him as he tries to formulate a response.

He doesn’t get the chance, not with the man dragging the bucket over and kneeling at Jon’s side. He has a knife and a smile, looking down at Jon with more kindness than Peter ever bothered. “Just stay still, alright? You won’t be alone anymore.”

Jon notices a millipede crawling out of the bucket, fatter than most he’s seen, and he realizes it’s likely full of eggs. It takes every last ounce of strength to push himself up and away, nearly tipping the bucket as he scrambles back against the wall on weak limbs.

“Come on, don’t be that way. It won’t hurt that much,” the man soothes, approaching carefully with his little switchblade of a knife like he’s calming a wild, injured dog.

“Stay away from me,” Jon shouts, trying to pull away as the man grabs his arm. The knife starts digging into his forearm and panic blooms anew in Jon. He wishes he could slip away the way Peter did, be invisible, crawl out and into the sun. Be alone.

Maybe it’s there when Jon sees it, the lines of this man’s lonely life that led him to a dingy room and pile of corpses. It dulls the pain for a moment to feel the weight of the man’s disappointing life, of the gazes turned away from him out of disgust or discomfort, of longing and filth and delusion. 

“You’re alone,” Jon tells him, voice quiet and awed. The man’s eyes sharpen and Jon continues. “You always have been. They don’t see you, they don’t know you. They’ll eat through your corpse when you die and you won’t be any different from the rot in an alley.”

What happens next Jon can barely say. The air feels thick with fog, the man is yelling, denying, but his words are as pointless and unheard as they’ve ever been. He’s nothing, he’s always been nothing, and Jon can see it so clearly the man simply begins to fade. Watching him vanish into nothing, into swirling mist clinging to his skin, it sends a delight through Jon he’s never felt before. He feels… stronger, better, singular in his survival. Right to survive.

There’s skittering and pain, then firm hands on him and the wet crack of insect shells under foot. Jon closes his eyes and slips.

-

When he wakes the pain is dulled enough Jon’s first thought is how long he’s been asleep.

He opens his eyes slowly, taking stock of himself. His fingers are swollen but not nearly as much, the little starburst bites over his arms mostly healed to angry little spots. There’s water at the bedside and a bottle of over the counter painkillers, both of which he takes and gulps down before lying back.

Peter comes shortly after, smiling and clean as though he never stepped foot in that awful room. “You look better.”

“No thanks to you,” Jon snaps, anger fresh and raw and sudden, wildly tearing through him. “You- you were just going to leave me there? Watch me get eaten by millipedes?”

“Not eaten, he was probably going to stuff eggs into you and let you incubate the next generation,” Peter offers helpfully. “You handled it well, all things considered. Why get angry over what didn’t happen?”

“What happened is you left me for dead,” Jon shoots back, and finds he feels painfully betrayed. It’s ludicrous, absolutely foolhardy to every assume Peter cared. “Were you trying to get rid of the husband you didn’t want? So sorry to mess up your plans by surviving.”

Peter regards him, head tilted to the side as though Jon’s fury is a curious thing. It tenses Jon’s sore, aching muscles all the more, a fine tremor shaking down his arm and through his fingers. “Get out. Either finish the job or leave, I don’t-”

He stops dead when Peter’s suddenly beside him, grabbing his hair in a rough grip and yanking his head back. It hurts but it stops him in his tracks, staring up at Peter’s pitiless eyes, all shadow and pupil, not a hint of the blue Jon saw before.

“You got rid of him,” Peter says, gazing down at him with a mockery of fondness and patience. “You’ve only been out for a few hours. Do you understand?”

It takes Jon a moment but he does. He should still be in agony, the cut on his arm from the rusty knife still a stabbing pain, the swelling just as fierce if not worse. He’s in pain but he feels better than he has in weeks. 

‘You got rid of him,’ Peter said, but Jon thinks what he really means is ‘you ate him.’

Jon swallows, unable to tear his eyes away. “That doesn’t change what you did.”

Peter smiles at that, leaning down to brush a kiss that feels like a joke against Jon’s temple. “Feel better soon, darling.”

And he’s gone, leaving Jon to lie back and stare at the ceiling. He tries to find disgust for destroying a man, likely killing him or worse. He’s still searching when he finally falls asleep.


	7. seven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> elias plays chess

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> big sorry for the delay, i had comp troubles and then med troubles. the next after this might be a bit late too, mostly because i want to do goretober properly but we'll see
> 
> big thanks to amber big egg lastname for betaing because my brain is mush

It takes two weeks for the swelling to fade and the bites to heal to little pinprick scars. Jon isn’t sure if it’s a quick recovery or a dragging one, given his knowledge of millipede bites isn’t really thorough or even existent. If it was he doubts those long, grotesque creatures could be compared to a typical house millipede anyway. He makes himself sick looking up information, the pictures inducing the feeling of skittering legs up his limbs again. He closes his phone and resolves for once to leave it be. He rests.

Peter is rarely around and Jon is glad for it. Ignoring Peter is a pointless effort given how rarely Peter bothers to address him of his own accord and how much amusement he gets out of Jon’s cold shoulder when he does. He treats it like a game and Jon doesn’t know how he can be so surprised (or hurt, wounded in a way he doesn’t care to examine) by Peter. He’s the acolyte to a lonely, absent god and Jon was always meant to be a project, a play thing.

Jon’s cooking dinner for himself and only himself after the last of the scabs heal when Peter’s suddenly behind him, broad hands hovering at his waist. Jon jumps of course, shoving to the side and out of Peter’s grip when he registers just who snuck up behind him. 

“Get out, if you want dinner you can make it yourself.”

“Still upset?” Peter asks with the same infuriating amusement. Jon doesn’t answer, just goes back to stirring the stew he set to making. He never bothered with such long, time consuming and complicated recipes before. Boredom is a powerful motivator to expanding his palate, he finds.

It takes a great deal of effort not to react when Peter dips a spoon in to test the stew, making what Jon assumes is an approving noise. Not that he cares. “I’m heading out on a voyage tomorrow morning.”

That does get some of Jon’s attention, no matter how reluctantly. He glances over then quickly back to stirring the pot. “Good. How long?”

“A couple of months.”

The longest Jon’s gone without seeing Peter in some form is about a week and a half, and even then his presence existed in little ways in the house- items moved, clothes on the floor, food vanished from the fridge. The vicious, angry hurt in Jon thinks _good_, thinks _maybe he’ll fall overboard and drown._

“Will you miss me?” Peter asks, all familiar, unbothered amusement.

Jon grits his teeth. “No.”

-

The house is aching in its emptiness, even if very little has actually changed.

Jon wants to blame it on Isolation sway or some trick of Peter’s, a spell to ensure Jon feels his absence keenly. In truth he isn’t sure it’s about as complicated or nefarious as his own damned brain turning against him. Even if he never saw Peter he knew the man was around or would be in a few days time, lurking in the corners of the house like a ghost Jon got accustomed to with each haunting. Even if Peter watched him squirm and bleed on the ground he had been there. At the very least Jon wouldn’t have died alone with millipedes and an acolyte of Filth.

He has plenty of time to tear into himself for the fact he _misses_ Peter in some way. It should be freeing to have Peter gone but instead he dwells on a feeling of abandonment, both in Peter’s actions that day with the millipedes and his departure. It’s all so pathetic Jon thinks he could retch.

His newfound unease with leaving the house doesn’t help matters, giving him nothing in the way of distraction other than what he can find himself. Marathoning shows doesn’t last long with so few any different from what he’s seen before and movies aren’t much better. Books remain the best possibility but even he can’t spend days reading, eating and sleeping like a neverending cycle. 

It’s during a particular fit of irritation distraction presents itself in the form of a knock on the door. Jon’s busy glaring at the book he recently cast aside and almost dismisses the sound, head cocking toward the entrance far too like a dog for his liking. The knock comes again, forcing Jon to his feet and towards the door, nerves spiking in his chest.

It’s not an angry knock or an insistent one, it sounds… polite, civil, the kind his grandmother wouldn’t grimace at when they got solicitors. That’s all well and good but Jon has no idea who on earth would be knocking at his door. Deliveries go through the front desk of the building, alerts texted even for the bigger items that need to be moved in by whatever company brought them. They have no neighbors since they’re the top floor and even those on the floors below know better than to do anything as dreadful as socialize. People pay top dollar to be left alone to their vacations and, in his case, gilded cage.

Jon glares at the door- no peephole, of course, though there is some sort of camera system he never bothered to set up on his phone. After only a moment more his curiosity beats out his paranoia and he cracks the door open.

What stands before him is a well dressed man likely around Peter’s age. He holds himself with easy distinction, greying blond hair and pale eyes, suit tasteful and business-like. If Jon had been asked he would have thought this man more likely the blue-blood than Peter at first glance, wealthy and well-bred. Maybe he is one too, Jon supposes, and the man’s mild expression puts him at just enough ease to open the door a little wider. 

“Hello, I apologize for the interruption,” the man says with a faint smile, and Jon tries not to frown as a feeling a familiarity strikes him, like he’s seen this man before. Maybe at the wedding? He certainly doesn’t remember that as well as he should. “Are you Mr. Lukas?”

Now that does make Jon frown, a grimace he can’t contain. “No- yes, I am technically, but Jon is fine. Are you looking for Peter?”

“Not particularly. In fact I was hoping to meet you,” the blond tells him, and before Jon’s suspicions can spike the man offers an apologetic sort of smile. “Apologies, I’ve been terribly rude by not introducing myself. Elias Bouchard.”

“The head of the Magnus Institute?” Jon asks, too surprised at this revelation to notice Elias’ offered hand. When he does notice it’s with embarrassment at the delay, and he gives a firm shake that Elias returns with surprisingly strong fingers.

Elias Bouchard looks pleased in a mild way, nodding his agreement. “Peter has told you about me then?”

“No, he’s… not forthcoming,” Jon answers, unable to keep the irritation from his tone. “No I’ve just seen you, in the papers and such.” 

Not exactly true, he’s seen Elias Bouchard online in his research into the domains and how to save himself from spiders. The Magnus Institute was one of the first lines he followed, easily the most visible of the powers once you looked past its excellent disguise as merely a building full of crackpots. Lord knows Jon felt the same for a spell, until denial couldn’t hold up against the battering force of the truth all around him. 

Strangely he can remember the first time he saw Elias Bouchard, his picture on the Institute’s website next to a paragraph describing fundraising and academic grants. It was clearly taken at a gala of sorts, Elias standing next to other suited people, only recognizable by the little blurb underneath naming him Head. Jon had squinted at the man who apparently ran a research facility for the greatest horrors in the world and found him incredibly _boring_ looking. Just another rich, likely middle aged buearcrat with a placid smile.

In person he has more presence, or perhaps knowing now that he actually _does_ run a legitimate Institute helps. The picture captured most of him well, the fine features and carefully styled hair, the mildness of expression that makes him seem more like a somewhat approachable boss than the overseer of a place dedicated to the fear of being watched. It’s only the eyes that are different, appropriately enough. Not in color or shape but the sharpness, the way they feel like they’re trying to dig into Jon and find what lies underneath.

Jon realizes with a start he’s been all but staring Elias down, his embarrassment a very large part of the reason why he hastily moves aside so Elias can get in. Elias doesn’t seem troubled, just nods as if Jon’s being a gracious host rather than a nervous mess and steps inside.

“Do you want… tea?” Jon asks, awkward down to his bones. The last time he had a guest was- well, long before his dreadful wedding. Did having Georgie over count? He never bothered asking her if she wanted tea unless he was getting up to get some himself, and now he wonders if that was rude, maybe presumptuous. 

At least Elias doesn’t seem bothered and smiles, nods. “Yes, please.” And when Jon moves towards the kitchen Elias breaths out in a way Jon thinks must be amusement. “It’s strange to see a Lukas going to make their own tea.”

“I’m not a Lukas, not really,” Jon answers, stopping at the kitchen door. He finds it hard to leave the first real company he’s had in weeks, maybe longer if Peter isn’t counted- and Jon doesn’t count him, thank you. The dreadful lure of conversation is almost as strong as the sickly unease of leaving a stranger alone in his home.

Jon pushes through, goes into the kitchen and stubbornly makes them tea. He even pulls out the overpriced teapot and cup set that he largely refuses to use, instead rebelling with sensible mugs he’d ordered out of spite alone his first week here. Even this feels like a defeat in the long war against the Lukas’s steady infection of every aspect of his life. He thinks of his grandmother taking out the fine china for company and tries to ignore himself for one peaceful moment.

When he brings out the tray (he forgot the milk, damnit, but at least he remembered the sugar. He always took his tea straight anyway) Elias is seated politely at the sofa, one leg folded elegantly over the other as he regards the expensive view of the Thames from their window. Elegant is a good word to describe Elias, Jon thinks, polished in the places Peter is rough. He has so many questions suddenly he feels struck dumb by the choice and pushes forward, placing the tray down on the coffee table in front of Elias.

“I can get milk-”

“No thank you Jonathan, I take my tea without,” Elias rescues him smoothly, and indeed he takes a cup and doesn’t even add sugar, taking a sip and nodding his approval. 

A strange, irrational sort of pleasure lights in Jon’s chest at that. His grandmother always told him he overbrewed the tea, too dark and bitter and unpleasant. Even Georgie teased him for it with much more good nature, adding far more milk than she usually would to combat his tastes. Elias is likely just being polite but he seems sincere as he takes another, more substantial sip, Jon easing with it.

“You don’t consider yourself a Lukas?” Elias starts, or perhaps simply restarts the dropped line of conversation with an ease Jon envies. “I’ve met many who joined the family and they rarely felt the same.”

“Maybe they had other options,” Jon answers, trying to watch the irritating flash of petulance threatening to leak into his tone. Elias watches him like he’s interesting and maybe he is, or his story is at least. That is what the Institute sought, after all. “Is that why you’re here? For my statement?”

That brings a smile to Elias’ lips, giving Jon the distinct feeling of being laughed at, even as Elias shakes his head. “No, statements are the work of our Archivist.”

“Gertrude Robinson?” Another name Jon heard of, briefly in passing and more from Addelard when he asked the older man if she could be of any help getting more information. Dekker gave him a long look and shook his head, saying Gertrude would not help him and then refusing to answer more on the subject.

Elias nods again, the light of approval in his eyes at Jon’s knowledge. Jon allows himself to be a bit pleased as Elias continues. “Yes, Gertrude. I’m here in a somewhat unofficial capacity. I wasn’t able to make your wedding and wanted a chance to meet Peter’s new husband for myself.”

“Are you friends?” Jon immediately feels foolish for the question, grateful when any amusement Elias no doubt feels stays hidden well. The idea of a Lukas having friends- laughable indeed. “I mean- how do you know him?”

“The Lukas family have long been patrons of the Magnus Institute, and beneath that guise the Eye and the Lonely have been as close to allies as the domains get.”

“Easier to watch something isolated, I suppose,” Jon adds, morbid and dry, and he swears Elias’ eyes flare with pleasure.

“Precisely. I became Head around the time Peter began his voyages, so naturally we were introduced. Nathaniel Lukas runs the family but Peter is the proxy I deal with most often.”

Jon feels there’s more of a story there but he doesn’t know how to ask after it. It certainly seems the truth, and Peter did say the Institute could be trusted. Part of him balks at the idea of being a curiosity to stare at but he supposes that is what the Eye does, and lord knew Jon has little ground to stand on when it comes to being rude with his curiosity.

“Well, here I am,” sighs Jon, placing his mostly untouched tea down. “I’m sure not what you had imagined in the slightest.”

“No,” Elias agrees, though he makes it sound like a good thing. “You certainly are not.”

Jon thinks he should be offended by that, it sounds very much like the sort of thing said to him by people just barely resisting the urge to laugh in his face. On Elias it strikes a different note, like a private joke but not one aimed at laughing at him. Before he can even think of asking what Elias means the man continues smoothly. “Most who end up a Lukas are more… reserved, let’s say.”

“Hollow,” Jon offers dryly, and again Elias’ lips seem to threaten a smile Jon can’t prove.

“Devoted, certainly. From what I understand you are a refugee, not a faithful convert.”

“Is that strange for the family?”

“Yes and no. Have you met many of the Lukases?”

Jon considers his time in Moorland, the endless, hazy days looping in on each other. “No,” he answers hesitantly. “Nathaniel twice, Peter of course, and another man younger than them- Conrad.”

“The first cousin and resident scientist,” Elias tells him and he takes the little tidbit eagerly. He’s not sure why it means anything, he could easily ask Peter the same-- 

Though Peter would want payment, kisses and contact and mocking little games to string Jon along. Whatever Elias wants is less obvious, and at the moment Jon rather hopes it’s some leverage against Peter, some little jab to use against him. In truth he imagines it’s just curiosity that actually brought Elias here. Lord knows it would have brought Jon if he was in Elias’ shoes.

“Perhaps look into your new family, you’ll find they are an interesting topic,” Elias continues, and Jon thinks maybe he actually will. A pet project, and it wouldn’t hurt to have something to do, to know more about the family he’s reluctantly a part of. 

“Does that mean you’d be willing to tell me more?” Jon asks, already rolling over questions in his mind as Elias places his tea cup down.

“I’m afraid I’ve already overstayed my welcome.”

It’s been a long time since Jon felt such genuine disappointment over a conversation ending early, though he’s sure he can blame his isolation on that. They both stand and Jon tries not to look at put out as he feels, only faintly managing before Elias is holding out a card for him to take. It’s a simple business card, no overly expensive paper and ink like Jon was somehow expecting. _Elias Bouchard, Head of the Magnus Institute, London._ An address for the Institute and a phone number- and a _fax_ number which Jon is young enough to find a little baffling.

“I hope you won’t mind if I come visit again when I have more time to talk. I would like to see how you get along,” Elias offers so smoothly, as though Jon is a normal human being who has interactions with people- who _ever_ had casual conversations over tea that didn’t end abruptly and unpleasantly. Jon finds himself nodding without thinking, still trying to dust off the old, unkempt passageways of socializing he feels he hasn’t used in an age. 

Elias Bouchard takes his leave and Jon looks over the card in his hands, running a thumb over the sharp corner until it starts to dull. Peter never said he couldn’t talk to other domains, and Elias is right that looking into the Lukases could at least be something to do.

Despite that he hides the card in one of his books, slotting it into place on the shelf where no wandering hands or eyes will find it.

\--

Thoughts of his strange guest, research and anger at Peter only work so long as a distraction. His injuries heal and no longer bother him, his anger quells enough not to burn down the rest of his thoughts, Elias Bouchard doesn’t come or call and Jon is left alone with himself.

He killed a man.

That man was more monster than human perhaps, he tries to tell himself as much. He tries but when he closes his eyes and sees the stranger the man’s eyes are bright with genuine joy at sharing, an inner light, an entire world. He seemed so sincere in his horrifying offer, so delighted to do what he thought would help. He must have been beyond saving, so far gone in his delusions and infestation, but Jon can never know that now.

What’s worse, what makes his stomach churn with disgust at himself, is how often he feels frustrated at not knowing what he even _did_ to the man. Does it matter? He’s gone, he’s likely dead though some deeply horrified part of Jon wonders if he isn’t, if he isn’t trapped alone somewhere and begging for his swarm to find him, begging the walls that won’t listen and the air that doesn’t care.

Jon hasn’t been weak or tired since he took that man away. If anything he feels strong, alert and clear in a way he hasn’t since… ever. He feels good, and he hates himself.

Not for the first frustrating time he wants Peter here, he wants to ask all the questions Peter owes him answers to and finally stand his ground against Peter’s irritating little negotiations. He considers calling Moorland, trying to make contact with someone there who can tell him what he did, what he’s becoming, what’s to come. The cold, grasping terror he still feels whenever his mind skirts around his time under that house is the only reason he puts the phone down every time.

Maybe that’s the real reason he can’t go outside, Jon thinks one night alone in the bed Peter wants to share with him. Maybe he isn’t afraid of being attacked again so much as what he’d do to whoever attacked him again -- afraid of what he’ll do if he sees another lonely soul, if he’s given the chance to _delve _again.

To extend his life, to feed himself, to keep this lovely feeling that sometimes dulls the self loathing and guilt. To test and see what he’s even doing, what he can do. Lord help him when time finally wears him down to apathy. Maybe by then not recognizing himself in the mirror won’t mean a thing.

\--

Elias Bouchard doesn’t come back the next day, or the next, and by the middle of the following week Jon has scolded himself enough over how pathetic he’s being. The conversation didn’t last that long, barely scratched any surface and yes, maybe it was far more pleasant than any he’s had in longer than he’s been a Lukas but that’s really no excuse. He’s not a complete fool, he knows he’s restless and bored and _lonely._ In many ways thinking of Elias’ promise to visit is far better than missing Georgie or worse, missing Peter.

Bouchard did have a point about learning more of the Lukas family, especially once Jon realizes it might help him understand what he’s even becoming, what he even did in that basement. He scratches at well healed millipede bites and sets to looking up every possible thing he can of the Lukas family online. It isn’t remotely surprising he finds next to nothing solid, though it is properly disheartening.

Mostly he finds people with the Lukas last name, some he can tell are ‘family’ at a glance, if only from their pictures. It surprises him he didn’t realize earlier the way each Lukas seems washed out, corpse pale. Hell, Jon’s not even blood and he’s paler than he’s ever been, the brown of his skin tinted a sickly grey he doesn’t care to look at long in the mirror. For a while after his marriage he felt the disorienting lurch of seeing a stranger with big, hollow eyes in every reflection.

So pallor is a good tell, assuming he can find a picture online. As it turns out most Lukases don’t have social media, though one sticks out in a surprising way. A young man on Facebook, Evan Lukas, smiling with friends in college settings and bars, perfectly normal except for his rigidly white skin. A few comments even have friends calling him ghost like a good natured nickname, and the complete contradiction of what must clearly be a Lukas so loved and surrounded by people spins Jon’s head.

There was a time when Jon would have scolded himself for all but stalking the young man, but that time has long passed. Instead he takes notes, digs until he thinks he could go and find this Evan Lukas on a Thursday night, over at the same old bar he seems to do trivia in each week. Maybe he wouldn’t even need to say anything, maybe he’d take one look at Jon and know.

Would he flee? Is he a refugee himself, ran away from that awful house the way Jon ran from spiders- or is it all a trap, is he leading flies in with honey only to destroy the people around him slowly but surely? Is he as conflicted as Jon is? Is he dangerous?

Of course all of this investigation is ultimately pointless given Jon still can’t bring himself to leave his house. He could message Evan Lukas, try and get in contact there but it seems too flimsy a method. If he can look Evan in the eyes he can at least watch him try to flee or fight, surprise on his side.

Lord, since when has he seen this as an attack? He tries poking around more for a better lead and finds damningly little. He imagines trying to talk to Dekker again and balks at facing him now, a budding monster fed and sated.

In the end Jon sends a short message to Evan’s email, asking if he could answer some questions about his family to someone in a similar position. After a week Jon decides Evan isn’t responding.

That should be a hint to let it go, to keep searching elsewhere or give up, maybe to go and finally try and see Evan for himself. The urge to do so is great but his fear is greater, how easy it would be to see a lonely soul sitting at the bar and just--

And just.

He calls Elias in the evening, regretting it even as he presses the last button. It’s fine, Jon tells himself, Elias must be home for the day, this couldn’t be his cell phone obviously, and Jon can leave a message or just say nothing and pretend this never happened.

“Elias Bouchard.” It only takes two rings for Elias to answer, and Jon sits silently, jaw working as he tries to catch up with the situation _he created._

Elias is shockingly patient, or at least quiet as he waits for Jon to find his tongue again and stumble a, “It’s Jon- Jonathan Sims. Lukas. We met about a couple of weeks ago.”

“Jon,” Elias sounds pleased to hear from him, surprisingly and bizarrely enough, voice warm and welcoming and perfectly polite bordering on dull. It’s such a mismatch of information it throws Jon again, but thankfully Elias has more to say to cover his quiet. “I’m glad to hear from you.”

“Yes well… I’ve been looking into the Lukases like we talked about and I-” Why was he calling? Help, Jon supposes, or maybe more so just the sound of another’s voice, so lovely and addicting after such long stretches without. A reminder the world exists outside his door and he isn’t alone in four walls and nothing, not a thing.

Jon swallows and continues, stubborn. “I haven’t found much. I did find someone named Evan Lukas, university aged- do you know if he’s part of the family?”

Elias hums, the clink of glass making Jon wonder if he really did have his cellphone printed on that card. Maybe he has a work phone he carries with him? It’s easy to imagine Elias relaxing in his stuffy office somehow like the boss in a trite old movie, whiskey bottle hidden in the bottom drawer.

“I believe I know who you mean. A personable young man, correct?”

“He seems that way, I haven’t had a chance to talk to him myself.”

“Why not?”

Elias’ question stops Jon short, shoulders tensing as he responds woodenly. “He didn’t answer my email.”

“Hm, I could possibly help you find an address, if you’d like.”

Jon’s throat feels tight with… shame? Lord, it is, he doesn’t want to admit the idea of leaving the house at all feels dangerous for more than just himself. “I don’t- I’m not sure I should even be doing this.”

“If it concerns you you can always ask Peter’s permission,” Elias tells him mildly.

All of Jon’s uncertainty burns to cinders at that, old hurt and budding outrage at the thought he’d have to go ask _Peter_ for permission about anything at all. No, he refuses to bow down to Peter like he’s Peter’s well trained mutt- or worse, well trained _husband._ That’s what Peter wants in the end, isn’t it? With all his strange negotiations.

The anger is so bright and clean Jon finds he doesn’t want to let it go. It’s so nice to be something other than scared or sick or lonely.

“I’ll take the address, if you can find it,” says Jon, attempting to ride this second, wrathful wind as far as it will go. It clears his mind enough to blurt something else out, the suspicion blooming in his chest. No one is helpful without a price, not in this new world. “Why are you helping me? Do you want some leverage against Peter? Is that why you came?”

Elias chuckles, a low sound as Jon grapples for a moment with how ridiculous he was for accepting Elias’ help then turning around and accusing him of trickery. Elias doesn’t sound angry, in fact Elias sounds just as polite and mild as he ever has when he answers.

“I find you interesting. Curiosity brought me to see Peter’s new husband, you and your unique situation held my attention. I hope you don’t find that terribly rude but it is the way of Beholding. I’m sure you understand.”

It bothers Jon that he does understand, that Elias sounds so strangely sure Jon truly does. And it is insulting, like he’s a dinner show for Elias’ amusement, but at least Elias is being honest. At least if this is how Elias feeds there is no discernible body count. It doesn’t help some traitorous, prideful part of him preens at being interesting to a man who has surely seen so much.

“Sorry,” Jon manages, surly and unwilling to give more than that for his unpleasantness. As he’s come to expect Elias merely breaths out in what must be amusement.

“Think nothing of it, Jon. Now, may I have your email? I can send you the address tomorrow.” That seems too soon but still Jon recites his email address. “I hope you’ll keep me informed of what you find.”

“I’m sure you know it all already,” Jon sighs, and he can practically hear Elias’ answering smile.

“It’s likely. Even so, the journey often outshines the destination, doesn’t it?”

Jon ends the call with the uneasy feeling of being wound up like a toy then let go to see where he’d end.

\--

The email comes with an address not too far away, easy enough to call a cab and get to and be done with it. He could just go to the bar and it’s trivia night, an idea that both feels safer and so much worse. The cover of crowds of people, and if he’s being particularly honest a little alcohol wouldn’t hurt in getting Evan to open up.

He runs a hand down his face at the thought- when did he start seeing people like this? Like problems to be maneuvered around, or weaknesses to exploit?

Jon commits himself to deciding by the next day, thursday, the day he could go late to the bar or early to Evan’s apartment. Maybe inspiration will strike, he thinks with a healthy dose of incredulity at his own nonsense. As it turns out disaster strikes instead, in its way.

It’s almost six and Jon’s just remembered he should eat, thinks over the recipes he could try to distract himself or the quick meals he could throw together to get it done with. He’s halfway to the kitchen when the front door opens, and with it a strange, nervous excitement that Elias has come again. He’s hurrying to the front when he realizes no, Elias would knock, and the only person who didn’t knock was-

“Peter?” Jon thought he’d be longer, and he certainly thought their meeting would be a cold, disgusted moment of recognition before Jon got back to his day. Fine, it’s been a couple of months now but Peter made it sound so much longer.

Peter is also thinner than he remembers.

That what really strikes Jon- the bruised bags under Peter’s eyes, the way his clothes hang in a way they didn’t before, how bandages peek from under Peter’s sleeves. He seems smaller, even if he stands with the same easy command, even if he’s still smiling in a way that never reaches his eyes as he looks to Jon.

“Honey, I’m home,” he offers as he walks in, pulling off his jacket and letting it drop to the side. He moves with the care of an injured man, gentle with himself without trying to show it. “Bit cliche but really, I couldn’t resist. What’s the point of married life if I can’t make that joke once in a while, yeah?”

“What happened to you?” Jon asks, approaching and trying to ignore the sharp jab of genuine concern in his guts. As though Peter cared as he watched Jon writhe, riddled with venom. (As if he cared when he studiously cleaned the wounds later and brushed back Jon’s hair as he vomited into the bin beside his bed.)

Peter brushes past him, shrugs one shoulder and answers, “Business,” as if that means anything. Monsters, he likely means, and Jon’s silent as processes this, as he watches Peter move with a straight back and aborted little movements whenever he pushes himself too far.

He’s heading for the liquor cabinet and Jon feels something sharp and agitated finally snap in him. “Bedroom, now.”

His order at least has Peter turning to him, brow raised. Before Peter can start on some no doubt delightfully crass innuendo Jon marches over. “Don’t start. Let’s go, you need to sit down.”

Peter searches his face as he allows Jon to guide him and Jon stares again, refusing to look at him. Once he has Peter seated he doesn’t let himself hesitate, just rolls up his sleeve to see bandaging already dotted with red here and there. He can see Peter’s collar bone jutting out just a little too much from the dip of his shirt and finally realizes that yes, he lost a lot of weight. Not emaciation maybe but a period of starvation, surely. It’s only been _two _months.

“If I knew a little injury was all it took to get you interested in my body I would have tried this earlier,” Peter tells him, and the edge of exhaustion is enough to keep Jon from reacting.

“You are an absolute idiot, why haven’t you gone to a doctor?”

“Someone looked me over,” Peter shrugs. “Are you worried, Jon? And here I thought you wanted me to drop dead.”

He says it with such amusement but Jon can’t, his chest is tight and he hates himself, hates how damnably weak and predictable he is to _care_ even a little. Human decency, he tries to rationalize and he gets up to fish out their first aid kit. Peter’s still sitting on the bed when he gets back, watching him like he’s an unseen variable. Watching him like Jon is something that surprises him even now.

Jon ignores that, ignores a lot really, chin high and jaw tight as he orders, “Shirt.”

Peter’s brow quirks again and Jon cuts him off. “Don’t. Just do it.”

It’s probably a testament to how tired Peter must be that he makes no further comment as he pulls his shirt off. Yes, too thin, a loss of muscle mass from the formidable bulk Peter had before. It’s not exactly dire but it’s striking, and even if he’s still larger than Jon he feels more fragile like this, more human in a way Jon doesn’t care for one bit.

Under the bandages all up his forearms are what looks like bites, not millipede but rodent maybe, though Jon has never seen rodents with that many teeth in that wide a mouth. He bites the inside of his cheek against asking again, if only because Peter looks like he wouldn’t manage the full story without a night of rest. He’ll have plenty of time to answer Jon when he wakes, because he will wake, because he’s defeated whatever set out to destroy him and Jon--

He shouldn’t find that comforting.

Peter watches him clean and dress the wounds without fuss or comment, eyes lingering on his hands before they settle on Jon’s face. Jon can feel him digging, though it’s only when he finishes that he gives Peter a nasty look for it. “What? Stop staring and sleep. I’ll get you some water.”

“Returning the favor, I see,” Peter muses but he does kick off his shoes.

“Favor- helping me after you watched me get to that point isn’t a _favor._”

“Because you wouldn’t have watched me get to this point?” Peter asks like a joke, like of course Jon would, for revenge and whatever sadism he thinks inherent in the world.

It makes Jon turns to look at him, brow furrowed. “I wouldn’t have.” Peter’s still watching him, his look a near physical sensation against Jon’s back. “Sleep, give us both some rest for a few hours.”

He can feel Peter’s gaze follow him, lingering even outside of the room.


	8. eight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> jon learns something new.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry very much for the delay, thank you for everyone who comments. i'm really anxiousbad at answering them but they're def the reason i've continued this far, you're all very appreciated lovely ducks

It doesn’t surprise Jon in the slightest that Peter’s a horrible patient.

The first hint of this comes when Jon calls a doctor to come look at Peter, the private, housecall kind familiar enough with the Lukas family to keep his head down when Jon lets him in. Also familiar enough to not so much as bat an eye when Peter just _isn’t there_, bed perfectly made and not the faintest clue around as to where he might have gone.

It’s only after the doctor leaves that Jon finds Peter in the exact same bed previously unoccupied. Jon made how thoroughly and aggressively unimpressed he was known, and Peter shrugged off any insistence he see a doctor, at least until the bargaining started.

“Share my bed and I’ll be a good, cooperative patient,” Peter offers, the smirk falling from his face when Jon answers immediately.

“Fine.”

It’s unspeakably satisfying to see Peter struck dumb, as though he really expected Jon would never go for it, let alone agree without a fight. He wonders if Peter even really wants him there in his bed or if Jon’s getting too close by leaning in when Peter tugs his proverbial pigtails. The flush of confidence at getting the better of Peter has him walk to the other side of the bed and climb onto what would be his side, if he ever slept here with his husband.

(He tries not to examine his own feelings about this concession, tells himself it’s tactical- tells himself it has nothing to do with the low, rolling dread in his gut at the idea of Peter not coming out of this. Practicality, if Peter gets well quickly then he is in turn quickly out of Jon’s hair.)

Jon sits back against the headboard, glances to Peter with a challenging look seeded with deep stubbornness. Peter’s still just watching at him, placidly blank, searching maybe. It doesn’t escape Jon’s notice that being seen bothers him more than it ever has after so much time blissfully, painfully alone.

“And I do not agree to anything other than platonic bed sharing, as it were, I know you enjoy loopholes,” Jon tells him primly, and finally Peter’s mask breaks into a different one, a laugh as his head thumps back against the headboard.

“Hot and cold little bastard, aren’t you dear?” Peter looks over and Jon thinks he can wrench at the faintest cracks in Peter’s expression to see something beneath. Discomfort, confusion maybe, as though Peter isn’t sure what he wants. As if Peter’s tired, worn and sick like any normal human being would be in his condition.

Jon pulls out his phone, ignores how much of a victory this felt like even if he’s also quite sure he just put his neck against Peter’s waiting teeth. “I’m calling the doctor again, will you behave this time?”

Surprisingly Peter does.

That night Jon stays true to his word, gets ready with a nervous heart. Peter lost a lot of mass in whatever happened to him, like he’d been starved in an event he still hasn’t explained to Jon. The doctor told him the best kind of diet, gave instructions over the wounds and couldn’t really tell Jon much of what he didn’t already know, aside from the fact that Peter's certainly going to be alright. It makes Jon irritable as he dries his hair and brushes his teeth, makes him wonder if Peter played him somehow to get them this far.

The faint surprise that flickers in Peter’s eyes when Jon comes in that evening tells him otherwise.

Peter’s room- _their_ room is all slate greys and polished finishes, modern and expensive and uncomfortably cold. Jon’s spent a lot of time processing the hostile design of the house, the way the decorations are all subtly threatening, sharp edges and cold metals, everything even remotely natural merely a farce - scentless paper flowers, dead branches warped into unnatural shapes, too dark and grey but hidden behind the shine of cleanliness and expense. At first Jon found it unsettling when he noticed. Now he finds it childishly theatric.

At the very least their bed is sinfully comfortable, no expense spared for personal pleasures as far as he’s seen. It’s pointedly more comfortable than the guest room bed he’s been using and Jon tries not to be offended by that, as though Peter was snubbing him for denying their wedding bed. Given the faint surprise in how Peter’s gaze lingers on him Jon really is starting to think he truly never thought Jon would join him.

“Did you take your medication?” Jon asks, back sinking against the absurd, cloudlike pillows as he tries to ignore how jarringly domestic this scene would be to anyone who didn’t know the truth. Hell, even knowing the truth he feels odd for it, tries to drag up some of his intense anger over Peter’s stunts with the millipedes. Not terribly difficult to do but duller now, tired and burned out.

“What will you give me to do that?” Peter asks without missing a beat, and Jon rolls his eyes and makes a show of getting comfortable.

“Nothing, he said you’d be fine so if you want to be a child and suffer that’s hardly my problem. If anything you deserve it.”

“Ah, there’s the anger. I was starting to wonder if you were as easy to turn around as one little troubled journey.”

Jon should know better then to turn and glare at him, rising to his ridiculous bait. Peter isn’t even subtle about enjoying his reactions, his lips curling when Jon levels him with a scathing look. Jon exhales, lets the look drop out of spite if nothing else and steadfastly ignores how that seems to amuse Peter too.

“Will you tell me what happened? Those looked like rat bites- large rats, too large. Was it one of the powers?”

Jon’s not particularly surprised that Peter doesn’t answer, when he just stares up at the ceiling in what looks like idle contemplation. It rankles Jon because he wants to know, the curiosity itching unpleasantly under his skin with how the story glares back at him in the form of Peter’s bandaging.

“It took me a while but I’m starting to see it,” Peter offers instead of an answer, placidly smug at Jon’s agitated glare. At the very least he doesn’t make Jon ask to clarify. “You make a good Lukas.”

“I- what?” Jon sits up straighter, the blanket falling onto his lap. Peter’s still lying on top of the comforter, fingers laced over his stomach. 

He closes his eyes and leans his head back as he answers Jon, “You suit our god as more than just a source of suffering. You have the ‘right stuff,’ yeah?”

“I don’t, I’m not like you,” Jon answers sharply, fingers curling at the blanket until the absurd thread count strains. “All of this, it feels pointless to me, the sacrifices and ceremony and power. I don’t want any of it, I don’t enjoy isolation or isolating people. How does that make ‘the right stuff?’”

Peter chuckles in his low way, eyes all the more hollow in the low light when they turn to Jon. “Tell me something, darling, do you really ever feel deeply lonely?”

“Of course,” is Jon’s quick and testy answer. “Everyone does, it’s… human.”

Peter clicks his tongue, sitting up and resting a hand too close to Jon’s arm to prop himself up, leaning over as he speaks. “I want you to think about it. Are you lonely when no one is around or are you bored?”

Jon frowns, ready to argue but Peter continues. “Isolation isn’t all about agonizing and longing and emptiness. It’s the self above everything else, separate from everything else - and Jon, I think you’ve always understood that. When you’re ‘lonely’ do you really long to have someone by your side or would you be just as happy with something interesting to keep your attention?”

“No- no, not always,” Jon tries, feeling unmoored at the knowing look in Peter’s eyes.

“You’re afraid of being stuck in your own head. That’s what’s really been making you suffer here, not people. Admit it Jon, we’re alike in a lot of ways. I only made it this far because I was the same. I still am.”

“I miss people, I miss G-” Jon starts then bites his lip, doesn’t want Georgie’s name between them. 

“Missing isn’t the same as loneliness,” Peter replies easily, and it takes everything stubborn in Jon not to storm out.

Instead he dissects the feeling, deeply unsettled in how defensive he feels over such simple comments. Is it because Peter’s right? Even if he is right, even if Jon’s loneliness isn’t as it should be, surely Jon making the choice to stay entrenched with other people meant something.

(Even if he kept his distance, even if his anxieties flared in company and eased in solitude, even if he often felt distaste when dragged along by well meaning groups.)

Jon lets out a shuddering breath, plops back against the pillows again and glares up at Peter. “You’re trying to scare me out of the room, aren’t you? You didn’t think I’d agree and you don’t actually like sharing your space.”

That makes Peter laugh, a wince lancing through his expression as the movement jostles his wounds and shooting an irritating sympathy through Jon in turn. “Maybe I’m just trying to empathize with you over a shared trait. Socializing 101.”

“Because that’s certainly in character for you,” is Jon’s dry response.

They both settle in then, thoughts heavy and lugging around Jon’s head. It strikes him that maybe Peter’s not entirely dishonest in wanting some form of connection, even if it’s one through religious zealotry. That gives him an idea. “It feels worse to open up to someone, doesn’t it? We’re told again and again growing up that it’s freeing and lovely but all it really feels is vulnerable and picking at old wounds.”

That certainly has Peter’s attention, grey eyes sharp on Jon as he continues. “So wouldn’t it be perfectly within your wheelhouse to tell me what happened and feel worse for it?”

Peter’s quiet for a surprised beat before his shoulders begin shaking, actual mirth in the crinkle of wrinkling around his eyes. “Incredible, that’s the most obvious attempt at manipulating me for information I’ve ever seen.”

“Am I wrong?” Jon asks testily and Peter doesn’t respond at first, looking up at the ceiling. For a moment Jon thinks his ridiculous little gamble didn’t pay off but then Peter starts to speak about rodents in the cargo hold, about rations lost and cannibalism and desperation. An infestation that burrowed through any attempts at securing the rations, including guards. He names the many regulars on his ship who didn’t survive and the deformation of those who did, the fingers lost, the taste of human flesh on the back of their tongues when all that was left to eat was each other.

Peter only ate the rats, and as he explains the oily taste of old meat Jon’s stomach churns, rapt as he’s ever been.

When he finishes Peter exhales softly, “You’re right, I do feel worse.”

“And if I told you I’m sorry I’m sure that would just feel like pity,” Jon offers, hating the strange feeling of understanding between them in this moment. Peter glances to him again, hollow eyes and a quirked lip.

“Good night, darling,” and the light goes out with Peter’s fingers on the switch, leaving Jon alone with his thoughts and the sound of Peter’s breathing.

\---

Jon tries to busy himself in the following days, chasing away the lingering thoughts Peter planted into his head- chasing away his own words to convince Peter to share. At the time he hadn’t even considered how strange it was, how manipulative maybe, how unpleasant. If anything Peter looks at him more now, bears no ill will and occasionally deigns to behave during his recovery.

Occasionally.

“Get back to bed,” Jon snaps when Peter hovers in the kitchen. Peter doesn’t really need the strict bedrest anymore but he’s hardly steady on his feet.

He’s also just as annoying as he’s been at full health. “I’m sick of soup.”

“Well then don’t nearly starve on a boat next time,” Jon tells him testily.

“_Ship_,” Peter corrects with enough offense Jon has to catch himself before any amusement escapes into his expression.

Jon’s not entirely sure if it’s their discussion that made Peter feel more present in the house, more present in Jon’s life at all, or if his illness just sapped his power to go somewhere far away on a whim. He stubbornly ignores liking the company for all of a day before deciding hell, why not? His new, sadistic captor of a ‘god’ will love the fall out when Peter ultimately abandons him again.

Eventually Peter’s strong enough to move around without any hint of strain, then well enough he leaves the house in short bursts. The first time he comes back he’s clearly winded and Jon ushers him to the couch, complaining all the way. 

He gets Peter a glass of water and doesn’t think as he places the back of his hand to Peter’s temple. That’s how his grandmother always fussed over him, a quick check of his temperature as though it were instinct, a brief moment of contact between them when they rarely touched at all. It’s silly, Peter’s weak and injured, not fighting illness and his skin is cool. 

Peter watches him as Jon’s hand lingers, makes no move to lean in or lean away. Jon swallows when he finally pulls back and tries not to think of how nice the brief contact was. Peter could ramble on about the difference between loneliness and missing all he damn well pleased, sometimes Jon skin crawls with the need for contact.

“Don’t be such an idiot. You shouldn’t push yourself,” he snaps at Peter to cover his own discomfort.

That night Peter doesn’t show up at all, just an empty and echoing house not at all unlike his first weeks here. Jon goes through his evening routine, showers and brushes his teeth and brings a book and glass of water to their now shared bed, tellingly empty. He reads and settles into uneasy sleep.

It isn’t a lie to say he’s glad for the bed to himself, free of any awkwardness or expectation. It’s also true to say his hand strays towards the empty side as he tries to fall asleep, remembering the faint warmth of a body nearby. When his eyes close he dreams of the beaches near his childhood home, of hiding near the jetty as the fog threatened to consume everything from his sight.

\---

Elias Bouchard invites him to lunch outside of his dreary little flat and Jon is quick to accept. Peter’s much better now, bulk returning and movements fluid, an irritating terror to Jon when he’s around and otherwise as absent as he’s ever been. Everything feels like it’s slowly marching back to normal, or what Jon’s normal has become, enough that leaving the apartment doesn’t send him into a spiraling panic just to imagine. That’s why he readily agrees to the lunch, determined to make the step to move forward.

To what, he has to question himself. It’s chilly out even with his coat- his _wool and cashmere_ coat, that is a step forward he’ll never be used to. Ever since Moorland he gets cold easier than he ever did, compounding a sensitivity to the cold he had even before this nonsense. People move around as though he isn’t there and he finds the crowd as uncomfortable as he ever has but now he’s so aware of that discomfort, like tonguing at a sore tooth. His eyes slide unerringly to a middle aged woman with a distant look and he’s forced to drag his gaze away before he contemplates what some monstrous hunger in him wants to make of that loneliness.

Lunch is at a little bistro, quaint but posh enough Jon fights the urge to roll his eyes just walking in. The hostess doesn’t notice him but Elias does, sitting at a comfortable little corner table he waves Jon over to.

“Good afternoon, Jon,” he greets as Jon unbundles himself, coat and scarf and wool hat all draped over one of the free chairs. “You’ve gotten stronger since last I’ve seen you.”

“Stronger?” Jon asks as he sits, a small frown on his face. Before he can question that the answer comes naturally, a server coming over with water- just a single glass placed before Elias before she asks what he’d like to drink.

“A pot of tea for the table- and a glass for my companion, if you don’t mind.”

The woman glances to Jon then- or over Jon for a split second before refocusing and finally noticing him with a flush of embarrassment. She apologizes profusely before going to get him a glass of water as well, placing it down and escaping to put their order of tea in. Elias looks amused, as though this was anything other than another horrifying development.

“Rare for the Lonely to take root so easily in someone with personality. I tend to find it’s acolytes of a particular sort,” Elias tells him as Jon tries to ease the tension in his shoulders.

“Is that supposed to be a compliment?” Jon can’t help but snap, embarrassed instantly by his own foul mood and more so when Elias merely smiles. “I didn’t do anything, I don’t know why I’m- why _this._”

He hasn’t hunted, hasn’t _fed_ his ‘god,’ and Elias seems to understand what he means. “The exchange and growth of power in our world is an interesting topic, to be sure. Perhaps a natural inclination to avoid people is merely being exacerbated.”

“Of course, find people annoying enough and you become invisible is a perfectly sensible answer.”

Again Jon’s snappish reply only makes Elias smile, his amusement both a relief and grating in such a unique way Jon isn’t sure if he likes it or not. The tea comes and saves him from having to fumble with either an apology or a topic change, the liquid a stark and lovely red he’s never seen in a tea before.

He takes Elias’ lead and adds nothing to his cup, surprised to find the flavor not all that different from what he’d expect of a black tea. He likes it, and when he glances up after another satisfying sip Elias is watching him do so with some level of satisfaction all his own.

“You must have had a busy couple of weeks with Peter’s return and recovery,” Elias breaks the silence with, unabashed in stating such personal fact Jon never mentioned.

Then again Elias and Peter apparently knew each other. “Peter told you?”

“Peter isn’t the sort to offer updates on his life,” answers Elias, long fingers distressingly elegant against the restaurant’s fine china. “I am the sort to keep an eye out on important goings on, if you’ll pardon the pun. When the infamous Tundra limps back with over half its crew dead or missing even the Lukas family has trouble keeping word from getting out.”

“I’m surprised it wasn’t more of the crew gone with how Peter told it.” Jon thinks to rodents and gnashing teeth, his lips quirking downward. He wonders if Peter liked any of his lost crew enough to care his next voyage will be mostly new faces. Even when he spoke of the death of his old first mate he seemed flippant, placid.

Elias’ brow lifts, setting Jon on defensive edge until Elias offers, “He told you what happened- impressive. Peter must like you.”

That is the last thing Jon expects to come from Elias’ mouth, his own eyes widening before he leans back as if to distance himself from the comment. “I badgered him into it.”

“He’s not an easy man to badger.”

“Yes well-” Jon falters- this is ridiculous, why is he so vehemently denying his own husband liking him or not? He certainly doesn’t care either way. “He was tired from everything. That and he likes when you spew pointless nihilistic drivel at him. It gives him an excuse to be a little less unbearable.”

That makes Elias laugh, a short, startled sound barely a proper laugh, one that surprises them both. Jon blinks, a fluttering hint of pleasure blooming in his chest, the sort he’s sure his new god hates but he himself doesn’t mind in the slightest. It’s been a long time since he made someone laugh.

“I can’t deny he enjoys the rhetoric of Isolation,” Elias answers, and Jon’s struck with how Elias must have known Peter for a great many years now, back when Peter didn’t have the same grey to his beard, maybe even before he had the Tundra.

The thought lights a curiosity in him, has him lean forward a bit as though they’re here for gossip, of all things. Maybe they were, Jon’s not entirely sure why Elias invited him in the first place.

“You knew Peter when he was younger, yes? What was he like?”

Elias considers that as their server returns, this time with an array of finger sandwiches and food Jon does not remember he or Elias ordering. It doesn’t matter though because Elias sits back, tea placed to the side as he answers thoughtfully.

“When I first met Peter he was younger than you, quite fresh faced and brazen. I mentioned Isolation rarely fosters personality, and in that way Peter was strikingly unique. I suppose most of Peter’s personality is a camouflage, a mismatched patchwork of ideas on how one is genial and pleasant, with enough baseless confidence to pull the mess of ideas off. An interesting young man, to be certain.”

“So you think he’s playacting?” Jon can’t help but question, fascinated by this insight into his largely absent husband. Elias smiles wanly.

“I think he believes playing a part is just as sincere as growing into that role naturally. The way we act with people is very much a learned skill, thousands of years of social cues and imprinting framework for behavior so universal we often miss they exist at all. Imagine then the sort of person made when a child is nursed on the belief such foundations are ultimately meaningless- imagine still a child raised alone who is able to bend with the flow of such relentless isolation instead of breaking.”

“That’s horrible,” Jon murmurs.

Elias smiles still. “Horrible but very interesting, don’t you think?”

Jon wonders what it says about him now that he doesn’t disagree, that part of him thinks of all the quiet, placid staring Peter does after Jon makes him dinner or offers anything remotely normal or human against Peter’s performative games. He thinks of Peter’s surprise when Jon agreed to share a bed, thinks of the flicker of Peter’s expression when Jon didn’t want Peter dead. He thinks about what he else he could do to test Peter’s strange limits.

The last thought strikes him with enough force he sits back, a sick feeling curling in his stomach like a dead and heavy weight. Peter isn’t a toy to be played with and Jon isn’t a god damned sociopath, he doesn’t think like this- he doesn’t _do_ this no matter how curious he is.

He swallows, risking a glance up at Elias who watches him far too knowingly, thin lips curled into a little smile against his tea cup.

As curious as he is about Peter as a young man Jon changes the subject hastily, picks at the finger food as Elias indulges him in a general rundown of the Institute’s hierarchy and departments. He seems quite pleased to be asked about the Institute at all, approving of Jon’s sincere interest in a matter Jon imagines few find all that fascinating. 

Not for the first time he laments not going to the Institute before his trip to Moorland. Elias has been helpful, perhaps not overly detailed with his vague answers but offering answers nonetheless. Dekker warned him off Gertrude Robinson, he never mentioned Elias Bouchard. Strange, Jon thinks, but hypotheticals are hardly a useful line of thought regardless.

When they finish Elias holds up Jon’s coat for him, such an odd gentlemanly gesture Jon can’t help but redden and squint back at him as he puts his arms through the sleeves. Elias doesn’t bat an eye, infuriatingly calm and closed as he always is, and Jon decides that if he’s being teased at least Elias has the grace not to laugh in his face about it.

“Let me know how your meeting with Evan Lukas goes,” Elias offers when they part, leaving Jon to stand on the sidewalk, ignored by the people who part unknowingly around him. He nearly forgot Evan in all the drama with Peter’s return and the reminder settles in his chest with an anxious buzz.

Tomorrow, he decides as he walks back home. At the bar Evan frequents, just as he planned. He briefly considers mentioning as much to Peter now that his hatred mostly settled but still he finds it hard to stomach. Peter and his family clearly want him to give in blindly to this dreadful transformation and Jon’s never been one to make things so easy.

Peter’s there when he returns, lounging on the couch. His impressive bulk has mostly returned, far too fast for any normal human but Jon can’t find it in himself to be surprised anymore. 

“Have a fun walk?” Peter asks him, all teeth when he smiles. Jon briefly considers mentioning Elias, given he’s supposedly an ‘old friend’ of Peter’s and an ally more importantly.

In the end he snorts and ignores Peter, enjoys the little privacy he has in this mockery of a house. He thinks Peter would appreciate that at least, the drive to keep his business his and only his, sharing nothing. 

\---

The next day is mostly devoid of Peter, back to old form, and Jon’s intensely glad for it as he prepares what he wants to say to Evan. He hasn’t been to a bar since uni, since Georgie would occasionally drag him out to unwind between them or with friends. Not exactly Jon’s scene, he tended to bring a book or scroll his phone until Georgie had her fill rather than participate. He was very popular on trivia teams though, fond little memories that nearly overshadow the last, disastrous time he went out with Georgie to a pub.

It’s still so vividly in his mind’s eye- the spider that crawled up her neck, how she stared in unease when he insisted on checking her hair for it, the stilted laughter of the other people at the table and the concerned looks when he couldn’t unwind. He went to smoke a cigarette to get away from it and a woman with milky eyes approached him in the alley, all stringy, limp hair and crooked gait.

_What will you bring?_ she asked him and his mind went numb with terror, with sickly flowers and gifts of cake and knocking. Georgie’s voice broke him out of the spell, and when he turned to see her approaching he was struck with the intrusive thought of dragging her to a door and offering her, of watching as the spiders judged whether she was sufficient or they’d simply both be devoured.

Everything after was a blur. He ran from Georgie, she followed in alarm, they both were nearly hit by a motorcycle that sent Georgie down and skidding against the pavement. Her arm was enough of a mess they spent the rest of the evening with a nurse picking out the little pebbles and debris. Georgie told him calmly there was no one in the alley when she sought him out.

He broke up with her a week later, and shortly after that he was in Moorland, then married. Even as far as he’s come Jon wonders (hopes) she thinks of him sometimes, that maybe one day her memories of him will be fond.

Jon cleans his face in the sink as he gets ready, sighs against his palms and looks up at his face. He still barely recognizes it, eyes too hollow and skin too pale. It doesn’t give the same visceral fright it once did to see himself, which he supposes is a good thing. At this point he’ll take what he can get.

On goes the least offensively expensive looking clothes he owns, and with one last look around the apartment to make sure Peter isn’t hiding about he heads down to the cab he called. The bar in question is close to university housing so it’s… boulstrous, to put it lightly. That would be more of a problem if no one seemed to notice him as he made his way through the crowds, slipping in to the bar proper with a look of grim determination.

The trivia for the night is already over, groups of people sharing celebratory drinks or bemoaning unfair questions as he passes. Evan sticks out like a sore thumb, so shockingly pale he washes out in the dim light of the room, smiling and laughing with friends, a pretty girl smiling at him the way Georgie would occasionally smile at Jon.

It doesn’t take long for Evan’s glance to raise, for him to meet Jon’s gaze in a way no one but Elias and Peter have done since his wedding. Jon can practically see the discomfort ripple through Evan, the way his throat bobs as he swallows back unease. Jon’s afraid he’ll make a run for it, even raises his hands to try and make some sort of placating gesture, but Evan stands and offers a quick word to his group before approaching himself.

“What?” is what Evan Lukas asks him when he reaches Jon still standing dumbly near the bar. Any plans flee Jon’s head and he struggles for something to say, a sputtering that at least seems to put Evan ever so slightly at ease. “Let’s get a drink.”

“Right,” Jon answers, and they sit at the bar. The bartender barely notices them, making Jon wonder if it’s him or if Evan has lingering power from his family. Evan does manage to order them two beers, giving Jon time to rebuild his nerves. “I’m not here for trouble, I just- I want to ask you some questions.”

Evan glances over, and this close Jon can see the small resemblances to Peter besides the pallor and eyes. He has the same broad shoulders, the same slight wave to his hair, not much but enough Jon imagines they’re cousins. He frowns when he asks Jon, “You’re family, aren’t you?”

“What gave it away, the blindingly pale skin or the dead eyes?” Jon can’t help but ask dryly, relieved when Evan’s lips quirk and he eases a little more. A show of personality, Elias did tell him most Lukas’ weren’t the type. Who would have thought his acerbic nature would ever help him. “I married in a few months ago to escape a worse fate. No one’s been very helpful in explaining… well, anything. I just want to know what’s happening to me.”

That doesn’t have the same calming effect as the dry remark but Evan does let out a resigned breath, enough to give Jon some measure of confidence that his new drinking partner wasn’t going to run off the second Jon turned his head. He takes a sip of his beer- terrible, watery and pungent in a bitterly nostalgic way- and gathers his nerves to start questioning.

Evan gets there first. “Who did you marry?”

“Peter.”

That has Evan’s eyes widening to an almost comic degree. “Peter? Captain of the Tundra Peter?”

“One and the same.”

“Wow,” Evan muses, sipping at his own drink with much less of a grimace. Jon notices his clothes are on the cheap side, meaning when he left he must not have taken any of his family’s money with him. “I was expecting Conrad or someone a little more… serious.”

Jon has no idea what to make of that comment and decides it’s probably a little insulting, as though he’s too boring to marry Peter. Before he can pry Evan beats him to the punch again. “Does he know you’re here?”

“No, I didn’t see the point in telling him. I also imagined you may not want the attention of your family again, since I get the impression you’re somewhat estranged.”

Evan nods, pale fingers tapping his sweating glass. “Thanks-” he pauses, and Jon realizes he wants a name.

“Jon.”

“Jon, right, you sent that email.”

“The one you ignored.”

Evan looks only slightly sheepish at that. “I don’t like taking chances, sorry. Anyway, it’s better for you too there’s no trail and he doesn’t know about this, your uh… wow it’s still weird to think of Peter married.” 

“You think he’d have a problem with me being here?” Jon asks.

Evan hesitates and Jon watches his cheek cave as though he’s biting the inside of it for a moment. Eventually he continues, haltingly. “I used to think he was pretty alright, the rare times I saw him. That lasted until he used that to trick me, got me in a lot of trouble thinking I could trust him on his word.”

“What did he do?” Jon can’t help but ask, and Evan shakes his head.

“It doesn’t matter, what does is you shouldn’t trust him. Even if he was fine with you talking to me he… I don’t know, maybe it’s all a game to him, playing with people. Maybe he likes betraying people because it makes them more distrustful and all that Lonely stuff. Like worship, I guess? Or maybe he’s just a bastard.”

“Maybe both,” Jon murmurs, Evan letting out a huff of a laugh and raising his drink with a little ‘cheers.’ “I didn’t realize speaking with you would even be that much of a problem.”

“‘Course it is, I got out.”

It takes Jon a moment to understand the gravity of what Evan’s telling him, to catch how Evan pins him with his gaze as if willing Jon to understand. “... you mean away from more than just your family.”

Evan nods, a short jerk of a motion, and Jon realizes for the first time he’s right. Evan’s pallor is just that, pale skin, strangely so but without the grey tint, like the fog around Moorland trapped in his pores. His eyes are dark but not shadowed and people look at him, only stuttering when their gazes pass Jon.

Jon swallows. “How?”

Again Evan looks quiet, hesitant. He looks over to his group, to the girl who smiles and waves back. “You have to be known by someone, completely.”

Jon frowns as Evan turns his gaze back, as he runs a hand through his hair nervously. “That’s it?” When Evan’s look turns unimpressed Jon hastily adds, “I just didn’t think it’d be so… power of friendship, as it were.”

“Do you know what it’s like to have no secrets?” Evan asks him, and Jon hesitates. “I mean anything, Jon. Nothing for yourself, not even the privacy of your own thoughts.”

“Obviously I don’t,” Jon answers, glancing again at the girl Evan keeps looking over to. “How did you manage that? Is it her?”

Evan laughs, such a shockingly unpleasant sound from his usual genial tone Jon’s skin crawls. “No, I want to build a life with Naomi. Look, I’ve already said too much.”

“But-”

“I’m serious. I answered your big question, didn’t I? I don’t know what makes my- our- family monsters, or what you’re becoming. I only know I got out. You have to figure the rest out for yourself.”

Before Jon can stop him, can tell him he didn’t even consider the option of escaping before now, Evan stands and heads back to his group. They welcome him with open arms and Jon itches to follow, to pelt question after question at him- how was he so fully seen, why did he run, what is Jon becoming, was it all worth it? Could it possibly be?

Jon watches for a few more moments, lets the hollow ache of nostalgia sting his chest, more nourishing to him as he is now than agitation at unanswered questions. He finishes his beer, leaves money on the bar despite the fact no one even acknowledges he’s there. At least now he has more than enough money for generous tips.

As he leaves it strikes him that the bar was too quiet, not the usual yelling over rowdy patrons to get a word in on a busy night. The whole world is muffled like the silence of a first snow, and as Jon stands on the sidewalk in front of the bar he closes his eyes and tips his face up. Like this it’s easy to imagine he’s alone in the world, and his stomach twists with how little that idea alarms him anymore.

When he opens his eyes it’s with a soft sigh, fingers brushing over the phone in his coat pocket. He could call a cab or start the very long walk home, an idea he would have found impossibly horrifying only a few weeks ago, millipede bites still fresh. 

Lord, when had he started to get so apathetic? Was that what this is? Even a month before the idea of escaping the Lukas family would have been a boon, an out incase he ever felt he needed it. He would have anguished over the Web, whether he’d be better off living with that constant danger or trapped in his gilded cage. He would have seriously considered the inevitability of hurting someone again like he did that Corruption acolyte, he would be pacing right now and yet-

The air is cold enough to steam his breath as exhales long and slow. And yet here he is, letting people walk around him.

He starts to walk eventually, letting his mind wrap around the idea of being known. The area becomes vaguely familiar, enough that when he looks up he recognizes the streets, muscle memory having taken over. The idea of seeing Georgie buds in him, a suddenly desperate need to the tune of ‘just a glance, just a peek, just to see how she’s doing.’

Morose social media stalking tells him she’s still in the area, hasn’t moved away. Jon’s more surprised than he should be when lurking leads him to actually finding her, takeout bag in hand and walking purposefully across the street. She turns at the crosswalk, gets closer and closer, still in the old, ugly coat she’s had since they met. Still with the threadbare gloves she refuses to replace.

His heart skids in his chest when she gets close and then just walks past, looks past him without even a stutter. Walks away.

“Georgie?” The words escape Jon before he can think about it, before he can think at all, before he can register the low burn of horror that he’s lost from her forever.

That word breaks the spell that seems to cling to his skin and slides everyone’s gazes off him like oil and water, calling Georgie’s attention and letting it pierce through the veil and to his own shocked face.

“Jon?”

She looks good, she always looked good, pink cheeked and smiling at some passing thought- well, up until she sees him. Then her smile drops, eyes widening as she hurries forward, gloved fingers reaching for his jaw before she stops herself.

Her hands drop just as she reaches him and Jon feels… he doesn’t know. It’s as though so many feelings slammed through him they left nothing but a sharp buzz in their wake. He knows he feels something, his hands shaking with it.

“Oh god Jon, are you dying?” is the first thing Georgie asks, breaking Jon out of his shocked trance.

“I- what?”

“You look- no offense but you look like shit? Sorry, I mean, you look- wow actually when did you start buying clothes that fit?” Georgie blinks down at his outfit before waving a hand as if to focus herself. “Not the point. Are you dying or not?”

“Why do you think I’m dying?” Jon asks, a little huffy outrage leaking into his tone. “Because I’m a little pale, really Georgie?”

“A _little?_ Try upping that estimate first off, second what else am I supposed to expect? You go a bit mental, vanish for a few days, come back to break up with me then fall off the face of the earth? And now I see you again and you look like you haven’t seen the sun in… ever?”

“That’s-” Jon starts, stops, struggles with an argument to any of that. Fine, he can see the thread of logic, and really it may be a better story than the reality. “I’m fine.”

“Right.” Georgie’s face goes colder and Jon’s fingers twitch with want, to just grab her by the hand and beg her to stay, just a little longer. To talk, to pretend Jon didn’t break up with her abruptly and harshly, to allow them this one moment.

Georgie’s always been good at reading him, which is probably why her iciness cracks under the face of the desperation no doubt planted on Jon’s face. “I’m sorry,” he tries, both because he is and because he wants her to stay a little longer. “About… how things ended. I wasn’t very fair to you.”

“Yeah,” Georgie agrees, gaze probing. “What happened, Jon?”

“I don’t know where to start,” Jon answers truthfully enough, and with enough resignation Georgie doesn’t push further.

Instead she sighs, hand going tentatively to his elbow. “It’s probably better we broke up- I love you and all, platonically, but you’re a headache as a boyfriend. I’m serious though, about the platonic part. You can talk to me.”

“I know,” Jon answers softly, a feeling that manages to be soft, warm and nauseous turning in his chest. 

Georgie squeezes his elbow, more contact than he’s had in so long he nearly shudders. “I’ll unblock your number.”

“You blocked my number?”

“Don’t test me, Jon,” Georgie answers as she pulls back. “Just… call me, alright?”

Jon watches her go, heart thudding dully in his chest.

\---

Peter’s there when Jon gets home.

The emotional whiplash of the evening makes it hard for Jon to dredge up the proper amount of dread and nerves at this fact. The low grade panic is still there, that Peter knows everything somehow, that he’ll smile as he tears Jon to pieces and tells him it’s for his own good. He stands at the door, still in his coat and scarf as Peter finally glances over from where he’s lounging, paperwork spread all over the coffee table.

“Have fun?” is all Peter asks, and Jon swallows a laugh.

“Not really.”

He strips his coat, scarf, gloves and shoes, tosses them haphazardly in a way he usually couldn’t stand. Hell, he’s yelled at Peter for doing as much before and the hypocrisy doesn’t escape Peter’s notice, his stark eyes sharp on Jon as Jon approaches. “You’re not going to ask where I was?”

“I don’t really care,” Peter tells him without batting an eye, and this time Jon allows the laugh bubbling in his throat.

“Right, part of the whole Isolation business. Don’t you ever get tired of it? Surely being stuck with yourself all the time must be boring.”

“Speak for yourself, I’m a very interesting person,” Peter answers as Jon stops before him. Peter’s still comfortably slouched on the couch, one arm over the back and shirt unbuttoned dangerously low. The bandages are all gone and in their place is clear skin and a smattering of angry red scars.

It surprises Jon that he wants to touch them, to see if they feel the same as his own scarring from the millipedes. It surprises him more that he finds he doesn’t feel the same impropriety at the idea of doing so. The laws of social nicety, the boundaries between acceptable and rude, they all seem so much lesser the longer he spends here.

Jon slides one knee on the seat of the cushion next to Peter, kneeling at his side with a hand braced on the back of the couch. His other hand goes to Peter’s arm and does just as he planned, the pad of his finger only grazing the scar tissues before Peter grabs his wrist just roughly enough to hurt.

“Didn’t say you could do that,” Peter tells him, and Jon stubbornly catches his eyes.

“I don’t really care,” he tells him, and there’s a spark of something in Peter then, a bright, avid thing that Jon wants to chase when it fades back into his placid look.

“You saw someone you knew, didn’t you? Or did you feed again?” When Jon doesn’t answer Peter laughs. “No, the former. The latter and I’d be able to taste it on you.”

“Let go,” Jon tells him, irritation starting to bud.

Peter doesn’t and instead says, “I’ll let you touch me as much as you want if you kiss me.”

The bartering is so familiar now Jon doesn’t feel the same outrage as he once did. Evan told him not to trust Peter but in some ways he does, at the very least Peter’s always kept his word on these ridiculous little flights of fancy. Maybe that’s why he doesn’t try to jerk away.

“One kiss,” he settles on, and Peter looks at him like he doesn’t actually believe Jon will go through with it. _That_ look is exactly why Jon does.

Peter’s lips aren’t soft, they’re a touch chapped, more so than when they got married. Peter releases his wrist to drag Jon closer, encouraging him over his lap, and Jon does. For the first time all day he feels something like his old feelings start to stir under the fine apathy, his heart beating and his mind screaming at this terrible idea until Peter’s teeth at his bottom lip shuts that voice up. Jon’s palm presses against Peter’s shoulder and Peter is so solid, nothing like the dust and fog his figure usually cuts. He feels real, and Jon feels real in turn.

When the kiss breaks Jon swallows, watching Peter stare up at him with a faint smile like the entire exercise was nothing more than a passing amusement. Jon nearly laughs at the knife that twists in his gut at that, taking his payment by running his thumb over the scars up Peter’s forearm.

“They do feel the same,” he says to himself, ignoring Peter as he pulls off Peter’s lap. Peter’s hand twitches and Jon wonders if he wants to keep Jon there or push Jon away faster. 

“Goodnight, Peter,” he offers only when he’s put his coat on the rack and fixed the little mess he made coming in. He can feel Peter’s eyes on him as he walks into the bedroom and closes the door. He imagines them even as his back slides down the door and he crumbles into himself, hands running over his face and sore lips.


	9. nine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> two dates and a funeral

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> three things. huge thanks to prox and theo for all the help, seriously cannot thank enough. second there's probably no aquarium where i said there is but in this universe simon decided to have fun and make one there purely for my benefit.
> 
> last the final chapter and epilogue will be posted sometime next week, barring disaster. stay safe buds

“You’ve been distracted, Elias.”

There was a time Gertrude knew humor, wrapped it around her words to soften the sharp, exacting nature that came so naturally to her. Elias appreciated that about her solely because it was an interesting little fact, a woman so Beholding aligned and so uncaring of social nicety as a whole still making the effort. Even now he finds her fascinating, his dangerous Archivist.

Elias smiles at her and wonders when she learned to pick out when he splits Seeing beyond his line of physical sight with whatever conversation he’s currently in. No one else has ever noticed before, and isn’t it such a shame Gertrude continues to prove… incompatible.

“I assure you, you have my utmost attention as always, Gertrude,” he tells her pleasantly. A lie, because Elias was trying to pry peeks of Peter’s happy little home, the fleeting glances of Jonathan Lukas. A man strong enough in the Lonely mist to evade his gaze at times but damningly curious enough the Eye always finds him again. Elias always finds him again.

He has to put Jonathan from his mind for now and focus on Gertrude, who gives him a run down of her latest work and her mounting expense reports. She takes great pleasure in spending the Institute’s money, not flagrantly misspending but petty nonetheless. Little jibes that almost distract him at times from the knife he keeps perpetually hidden behind her back.

When she leaves Gertrude does as she always does, slips to her office and then away, cleverly out of his sight. It’s taken some time to learn she’s going to the tunnels in a roundabout way, and there she is further hidden from him. He knows her plans involve the Archives, and if it weren’t for the Black Sun and the Unknowing nipping at her heels she would have made her attempt on his Institute already.

And yet she does not prepare for the Dark as she once did.

His gaze scours her office, her empty Archives, sees out of the eyes of every person close enough to the impending dark. Something very interesting will happen soon, Elias thinks, and equally soon Gertrude will become danger unleashed. 

Better then, that she thinks him distracted. Better still she doesn’t know who he is distracted by, because clever, ruthless Gertrude would slit Jonathan’s throat before she saw him in her place. She’d see the Eye behind his ruthless curiosity, obscured by the fog that tries to claim him. Perhaps it’s the Lonely that makes it all the more obvious, a counter image to show in stark relief how his natural tendencies thrive.

To find such a perfect Archivist candidate, let alone one marked by both the Web and Lonely already, borders on being too good to be true. There is of course the Lukas family to deal with but they’ve always been a shockingly simple lot to maneuver, and he has no doubt in his ability to do so. It’s Peter who would be letting his husband slip away, after all, and the Lonely has always loved Elias’ archivists, the terribly isolated creatures that they are.

His gaze begins to stray again to flickers of Jonathan in his home, sharp eyed and pacing as he pieces together the puzzle Evan Lukas laid out for him. The mist covers him too soon, likely Peter’s influence in the house, and Elias sighs before turning back to watching what he can of Gertrude, of the People’s Church.

He really is distracted, he must admit. It’s been far too long since he’s felt this thrill of possibility, the crowning of something novel and climatic in a story he’s directed seamlessly for too long. 

—

When Jon calls Elias he’s a little surprised when the man offers, “May I come over? I believe this would be a more satisfying discussion face to face.”

A discussion about Evan, about what Jon learned in that dingy bar, about dangerous information. It’s not as though Elias hasn’t been over before but still Jon feels strange, as though his home is a window he can only look out of. As if he’s something squirming under a decorative glass case.

Jon agrees, wanders around in scattering thought until he realizes company means he has to be presentable. He can’t just meet Elias at the door in his absurdly expensive boxers.

He’s pulling on slacks and a sweater when the doorbell chimes and sends him scuttering to the front. It’s late afternoon and the diminishing light casts Elias’ skin a warmer shade, a stark contrast to the icy steel of his eyes. Jon opens the door wider and watches Elias smile pleasantly as he bows his head and enters, a paper bag in hand that somehow manages to look expensive.

“A gift for having me,” Elias explains, holding the bag out. Jon takes it hesitantly and yes, the brown paper is thicker than he’s expecting, emblazoned with an intricate logo and heavy with what feels like a bottle. 

It is, a bottle of gin to be precise, svelte with a black label and silver lettering. Jon likes gin, far more than whiskey or scotch, and the back of his neck prickles with a clashing mix of pleasure and uncertainty. Once upon a time he’d laugh at the thought Elias somehow mined this preference out of his thoughts or through some underhanded method. Now he thinks it’d be foolish to imagine a follower of the Eye wouldn’t enjoy even little, pointless secrets like this one.

“Thank you,” Jon finally offers, walks them into the living area so he can make them both a gin and tonic. There’s a bar against one of the far walls, next to the floor length windows out to the Thames. Elias follows and Jon feels his gaze like a living thing, like fingertips brushing his back.

_You need to be known completely. Seen completely_. Isn’t that what Evan said in so many words?

“How did your meeting go, Jon?” Elias breaks him out of his thoughts, out of staring down at the mirrored surface of the bar. Jon blinks once and adds another ice cube, holds the glass to Elias who takes it. Jon doesn’t need to look up to know Elias is watching him still. “You seem out of sorts.”

“I… suppose so,” Jon admits, hand hovering over the ice tongs, over finishing touches to his own glass. “You know in all of this I’m not even sure what I’ve been looking for. I just wanted to understand what was happening, but why? What would that change?”

“Most believe information can prepare them, offer control over situations otherwise unstable and unwieldy,” offers Elias lightly.

“Control- maybe. Maybe that’s it. I can’t remember the last time I’ve had any real control over my situation.”

“Is that really true, Jon?” Elias’ tone isn’t kind so much as patient, curious. Jon feels the stirrings of defensive irritation but nothing comes. “You chose to go to the Lukas family and offer yourself. You chose to find Evan and learn more.”

“Then what, if not control?” Jon asks. Once upon a time his tone would be petulant, annoyed, snappish. Now it’s plain, and he wonders if he sometimes slips into the placid mask Peter wears so easily. Blank, distant, untouchable.

“Power,” is Elias’ answer, one that shudders a note too true down Jon’s spine. There’s a knowing in Elias’ eyes, one Jon can almost catch the shape of. Not solidarity but understanding, one born from experience. A hint that he wants to chase with his teeth, rip out and find the source.

Elias’ eyes hood as they watch each other, as Jon wonders what made Elias Bouchard chase down the power he now has, what price he paid.

“He said he escaped by being known completely,” Jon offers, sitting heavily with his glass. Elias takes the arm chair across from him, eyes just a shade too pale. Jon wonders why he never noticed it before, that faint inhumanity. “He made it sound like a massive sacrifice.”

“You don’t think it would be? The mortifying ordeal of being known is a popular enough quote.”

“It sounds like the sort of thing people romanticize,” Jon answers. His tone goes dry, tired at the flimsy edges. “It sounds like exactly the sort of sentiment I’d recoil from and people would look at me strangely for that.”

“Spoken like a Lukas,” muses Elias, and Jon throws him a withering look even as he internally agrees.

“What I don’t understand is _how_ he’s known that way. How is it possible? We lie to ourselves, we couldn’t possibly sit someone down and share every thought and still have time to live our lives.”

“An excellent point,” Elias says, and when Jon looks at him expectantly, waiting for more, Elias only offers a smile. “I’m afraid that’s a mystery you’ll have to solve yourself, Jon.”

“You know, don’t you? I mean that’s your whole wheelhouse, knowing. Would your god be able to see someone completely and sever them? Would you?” Jon asks, rapid fire questions that feel sharp on his tongue. 

Ones Elias merely continues to smile at, the bastard. “I think you’re a little ahead of yourself. What’s the real question that needs answering here?”

“Why you’re yanking my chain comes to mind,” Jon mutters, and Elias’ amusement is both a balm and an irritant.

“Would you choose being known?”

It’s not as though the question is a surprise. Jon knows that’s what this all comes down to, what he’ll do with the possibility of escape, if he even wants it. Elias’ gaze is a physical thing with how it pins him, and not for the first time Jon wonders what it is Elias gets from all this.

“Why are you helping me?” Jon asks rather than face himself, brow furrowed as Elias stands, glass untouched on the coffee table.

“You can’t escape the decision forever, Jon,” his tone is deceptively friendly, gentle even, the shade of solemn advice given to a doomed man. He presses a hand to Jon’s shoulder as he passes, the feeling blooming down Jon’s spine, reminding him he’s real. More solid than Peter but more invasive, a pressure that chases his thoughts as Elias leaves.

—

Jon’s never been able to escape his thoughts for long, denial only effective when he has distractions, work to focus on. 

It strikes him he doesn’t remember when he gave up the idea of having his own dreams. At some silent, poisonous point his goals all shifted towards survival, a low grade desperation that colored every decision even when he didn’t notice its mark. Uni far away from Bournemouth and the site of that horrible shutting door, classes that gave him a chance to distract himself but enough time to look into the dangerous world he found himself thrust into- even Georgie was a relief, a solid presence to chase away the scittering he sometimes saw across walls.

When did it start? When he learned how to hide the panic knocking doors brought out of him, an eight year old struggling to keep his heaving breath quiet as he hid in a bathroom stall, a teenager learning to live with the sinking guilt of a life paid so he could live, learning to brush off his grandmother’s questions when it showed on his face.

He sits outside and watches the Thames, phone close by on the railing, Georgie’s contact only a few taps away. Jon’s mind goes to Peter, wonders if he feels the same about his own choices. His husband, so quick to claim his own selfishness but surely once he was a boy surviving an empty house that was more a gaping maw than a home. He wonders if Peter ever thought of escape, ever does, or if he truly believes he’s free even as he wears his god and family’s chains.

Georgie picks up after three rings, voice cautiously pleased. “So, you did call.”

“So, you unblocked me,” Jon answers, lips quirking when she laughs.

“Don’t be so sour about that, you’re lucky I did. Really Jon, talk about a mess.”

“You have no idea,” Jon says softly, can practically feel Georgie gearing up to ask and quickly circumvents it. “What have you been up to? Still that dreadful podcast, no doubt.”

“What a charmer, I nearly forgot. Come off it, you didn’t call to catch up.”

“No, I suppose I didn’t,” he admits with a sigh. “It’s a warning sign when you’re trapped and it starts feeling… normal, isn’t it? Maybe not right but closer to comfortable than it should be.”

“Jon,” Georgie’s tone is suddenly sharp, intent. “Are you safe?”

It takes a great deal of effort not to laugh. “I am,” he answers, and he thinks it isn’t exactly a lie.

“Why don’t I believe that? Oh, probably because of the horrifying bit about being trapped you just asked,” is Georgie’s dry reply. “Will you please tell me what’s going on?”

“I don’t know where to start,” Jon does finally laugh, a humorless thing that he knows won’t assuage Georgie’s nerves. “I got married.”

“… you _what?_“

“He’s rich, which has taken some getting used to. Hence the new clothes.”

“I-“ It’s just a little delightful to leave Georgie so gobsmacked, a dark part of him enjoying it far too much. How often was he the one bumbling for what to say, only for good natured, long suffering Georgie to save the day? 

Jon swallows, shoves the nasty thought down where it belongs as Georgie recovers. “Is he hurting you? Trapping you?”

“No, he’s… good.” It shocks Jon more than it should that he isn’t lying. He tries to dredge up hatred and anger over the millipedes and finds it burnt out, worse still finds some level of understanding he desperately wishes he didn’t have. Even worse is the childish hope he crushes that maybe Peter would have saved him if he didn’t manage to himself.

At the very least Peter gave him a chance not to die alone. “He’s irritating but largely not around all that often. His family is more controlling than he is.”

“How did this happen? Jon, we were broken up for maybe a few weeks. Were you cheating on me?”

“No!” Jon barks, offended, and Georgie snorts.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought. Which is almost worse, really? Because now you’re telling me you had a breakdown, ran off and married some rich twat your biggest compliment for is ‘he’s annoying and not around much.’”

“When you put it like that it sounds bad.”

“You think?” Georgie’s laugh is a helpless one. “Okay, so you were saying you felt trapped but now it’s getting normal, right?” After a pause she says softly, “Jon?”

“Yes?”

“You deserve better.” That leaves Jon struck silent, swallowing against a lump in his throat. 

(He remembers Georgie’s hands in his hair after a bit of a breakdown, untangling the little knots of the day. “You really don’t think much of yourself, do you?” she asks him, and he’s too tired to argue. “You’re good, Jon. You deserve better.”)

Before Georgie can continue Jon hears a faint creak, heart leaping in his throat. “I have to go,” he says, hangs up before Georgie can try to ask. Ridiculous, the doors to the outdoor area are glass and Jon couldn’t be more obvious, phone to his ear then quickly shoved into his pocket.

He turns to see Peter opening the sliding glass and wonders when he started to be able to hear Peter’s approach at all. 

Peter leans against the railing, his silence more stressful than anything else about atmosphere and situation. “Well? Nothing?”

“Do you want me to scold you?” Peter asks, gaze sliding over. “Bad boy, making phone calls. I’ll take you over my knee if it helps assuage you of this tremendous guilt.”

“You really never turn off, do you?” Jon retorts, refusing to let himself ease as Peter merely chuckles at him. Normally he’d think this a trap, the calm to easy Jon’s skittishness before striking. Now he knows Peter better, certainly knows his husband prefers the skittishness and teasing, ramping up the tension until something snaps. Childish enough to to tug the wings off insects for fun but mature enough to know when his toys will break. 

Jon regards him, the way he looks over and quirks an eyebrow at Jon’s scrutiny, how he breaks the silence with, “I hardly need to worry about you now, yeah? You’ve been settling well.”

“Settling well,” Jon repeats, surprised to find a spark in Peter’s eyes, not quite religious devotion but closer to that than anything else Jon can name.

“When you walk the street people don’t even know you’re there, do they?”

Peter’s not wrong, Jon’s needed to try just to be noticeable to Georgie. Months ago he’d be sick to his stomach at the thought, and while the fear is still there it’s softer, a pleasant ache ringing warning bells all up his spine. 

When he says nothing Peter merely smiles, leans in close. “Call her whenever you want, Jon.”

He pats Jon’s shoulder as he leaves, a firm grip that lingers on the spot. Jon lets out a shuddering breath, a moment’s calm before he follows after. Peter’s pulling off his shoes, tugging off his shirt to the broad expanse of skin underneath. Jon swallows a laugh at the thought of what Georgie would say if she saw him, large and ruggedly handsome in a way he knows she liked.

“Can’t you fold your clothes? We have a hamper,” Jon points out when Peter throws the short to the ground. “I’m still not going to feed anyone to your ‘god.’ I’m not _settling_.“

“Of course you aren’t, darling,” Peter drawls, amused as Jon goes to pull off his own shirt and get ready for bed.

“And, for that matter, if I find out you bothered her I will burn down this penthouse. And your ship.”

“Did I ever tell you you’re cute when you’re trying to be threatening?” Peter asks as Jon pulls on a long, soft sleep shirt.

Peter sleeps in just his boxers, though Jon suspects he slept in the nude before sharing his bed. He still can’t tell if Peter’s genuinely being thoughtful (unlikely) or just realizes Jon would flee their bed if he tried to keep up that habit (more likely.) Either way it implies he’s grown to want Jon there genuinely, which is an idea Jon has trouble swallowing.

“Let me remind you again that you’re not charming or funny in the slightest,” is Jon’s reply before heading to the bathroom to brush his teeth. 

He comes back to Peter on his side, reading glasses low on his nose and flipping through a book Jon believes to be a manifesto for his ship, records of some kind. Jon watches him a moment, the strange domesticity of it that still leaves a hollow ache in his chest he can’t put a name to. When Peter glances up Jon climbs onto his side.

“Your clothes are still on the floor,” Jon points out. He tries to ignore the note that might even be fondness when Peter chuckles and closes his book.

“Sleep well, Jon.”

He doesn’t, instead dreaming of the endless halls under Moorland, of the thousands of lonely souls just outside his window. They look out at nothing and saliva pools in Jon’s mouth but he watches, doesn’t move from his perch. 

—

Jon’s surprised when Peter’s there when he wakes up. He’s always been an early riser, too prone to insomnia to keep still in the slow hours of the early morning, but Peter is apparently much more so.

Except today, where he lies sleeping in their bed. He doesn’t look innocent in sleep, if anything stillness makes the corpse-white of his skin give the illusion he really is a corpse. Jon has to watch with a surprising twist of worry until he sees the subtle movement of Peter’s chest, the in-out of his breath. 

He doesn’t dare move, even if his fingers itch to reach over and trace the crow’s feet branching out from Peter’s shut eyes, or the thin shell of his eyelid. So strange how little he’s really seen this face, his captor and his husband. So much time away, so many moments Jon stubbornly looked away from him as if he could will Peter gone. Only a few moments strike him, when Peter deigned to look him in the eye-

(_Their wedding, the shuddering moments before the kiss that sealed their contract._)

(_On the floor covered in millipedes, staring pleadingly up at Peter’s blank gaze._)

(_Their first meeting in the Moorland library, mazes and gold string._)

(_On the Tundra, Peter’s eyes not soft but closer to it than he’d ever been before._)

Jon closes his eyes, heart thumping in his throat. Despite the heavy rhythm he finds himself drifting to the pleasantness of dreamless sleep.

—

When he wakes he’s much less surprised to find Peter gone for the day. It isn’t until evening that Peter returns, tosses Jon his coat.

“Come on,” he says when Jon fumbles with it, smirking in light of Jon’s glare. “We’re going out.”

“Where?”

“A surprise. You know they say date night is important for married couples,” Peter answers cheerfully. Jon seriously considers throwing the coat back at him, aiming for his big, overly inflated head.

Instead he pulls it on, curious in a way he can only call morbid given he doesn’t trust Peter isn’t going to take him somewhere dreadful. “Am I going to regret this? Actually nevermind, the real question is just how much am I going to regret it.”

Peter puts a hand over his heart like Jon’s wounded him then has the gall to hold open the door. Jon rolls his eyes and walks through, only easing when Peter forgoes the car to walk down the Thames. At the very least he can try to flee home if Peter decides to feed him to a different bug monster.

As much as he hates to admit it the walk is nice. Peter’s quiet, doesn’t demand entertainment or constant attention, doesn’t cast meaningful gazes over or point out that what seemed a comfortable silence is an awkward one. His hand goes to the small of Jon’s back and after another hearty eye roll Jon just allows it. It’s warm against his back, shocking given what little he’s felt of Peter’s temperature. Jon tries not to think too much about it as they walk, instead mulling over his own gnawing curiosity at where they’re headed.

That ends up being an aquarium some distance down the way. Jon vaguely recognizes it from his walks around the area, back in a time defined by panic and fear. The fear hasn’t left him, still gnaws at his guts like it’s attempting to slowly eat him from the inside out, but the panic doesn’t come. He’s not sure if that’s a relief or alarming, if something’s changed in him or it’s waiting under the surface of his skin to come out howling.

There are police around the entrance, ones Peter ignores as they walk through. One officer is talking to a pale, shaking woman with damp hair and wide eyes, another to a baffled and frightened looking employee in a dolphin print shirt. No one looks at them, no one even notices the door open when Peter pulls at it, gesturing for Jon to go through.

Inside the place is empty, almost hauntingly so. Peter’s hand returns to Jon’s lower back as they enter the area proper, shops and bright posters giving way to tall glass walls and dim, watery lighting.

“Why are the police here?” he asks, unable to keep his questions to himself any longer.

Luckily Peter is willing to indulge him. “Simon playing games, I think.”

“Simon? Oh, Simon Fairchild?”

“He usually sticks to high places when it comes to his games, but every so often he’ll get in a mood and go back to sea,” Peter explains. Jon listens, taking the opportunity to enjoy Peter’s rare informative mood. A damned sight better than the constant smirking and bartering. “Why you’d leave the sea at all- no accounting for taste, is there?”

“The way you speak of it I’m surprised you aren’t part of this… Vast, was it?”

That makes Peter exhale a sound that could be amused, if Jon searched for it. “I wouldn’t love the ocean if it wasn’t a lonely place, yeah?”

“I suppose not,” Jon answers. The rooms are too dark to really see into the glass, at least until Peter breaks off to go and fix the lighting situation.

Jon takes note of that, the fact Peter knows where the light controls are, which to turn on. “You come here when it’s closed, don’t you?”

“I wouldn’t when it’s open,” Peter responds, and finally they can see the exhibits properly. Jon wants to follow that line of thought, bother Peter further, but his eyes stray to swarm of jellyfish moving in elegant bursts around one of the tanks and his attention is swayed.

“Oh, _turritopsis dohrnii_. Immortal jellyfish- you know when they’re harmed, starved or grow old they turn to a colony of polyps that ultimately produce an identical jellyfish,” Jon says as he walks up, surprised at the spark he feels flaring in his chest. When he was younger he had a brief stint obsessed with ocean life, always found jellyfish the most calming and interesting of the topic. Eventually he grew bored and moved on from the topic like so many others, but he can still remember holding his grandmother’s hand and watching the long tendrils with wide eyes.

That spark of interest turns melancholy, an ache that shocks him when he realizes he’s been struck with missing his grandmother. He can feel Peter’s attention turn to him like a shark scenting blood, wonders what it feels like to Peter to sense such a thing. He closes his eyes a moment, refuses to look back as Peter steps in closer. “This used to be my favorite exhibit to find in an aquarium.”

“Not anymore?” Peter asks, and the quirk of Jon’s lips is humorless.

“No, I suppose not.” There’s a bitter taste to it now, so much easier to remember his grandmother’s scolding for wandering, the times she’d try to move him along before he got his fill or slow him down when he was bored. It’s so much easier to resent her than it is to miss her, put further distance between them.

He pushes on, brushing past Peter’s lingering with stubborn intent, both to deny Peter his small pleasures and to resist that tempting lull of resentment. 

It’s hardly a surprise Peter likes the predators, lingering at sharks as Jon spouts off facts Peter easily matches. What is surprising is how easy the conversation flows, how Peter actually grins when he sees the octopi. 

“Smart little bastards, even caught up to warfare,” Peter says as the octopus in display watches them unnervingly back. “Delicious too.”

That shocks a laugh out of Jon, one he covers as best he can by clearing his throat. Ineffective if the mocking look Peter sends blandly he way is any indication. “I suppose you have to have empathy to find eating such intelligent creatures unnerving.”

“I eat humans, don’t I? Metaphorically,” Peter points out, his drawl inappropriately salacious for the subject, making Jon rolls his eyes and move through to the next room.

The ceiling is taller than the last room, the room empty aside from seating and a long wall of glass. Whatever lives in this tank must be large, Jon thinks, more sharks or oarfish, sleek and impressive enough to command such a space.

Strangely the tank seems empty, not even disturbed by little schools of fish. Jon steps closer, closer still, frowning at how some of the rocks seem to move.

“And there it is,” Peter says from behind him. Jon would turn in surprise if his eyes weren’t glued on the massive thing slowly lifting out of the sand, one giant eye pining Jon. He feels suddenly so small, so painfully small and insignificant, less than a meal.

The feeling passes with a shudder down his spine, poison bleeding out of his veins. The creature moves along the bottom of the tank, dark and massive and somehow hidden, like the tip of an iceberg. There’s no way the tank is big enough for it.

“Scared?” Peter asks him in amusement, like that wave of terror was a joke. Irritation crawls up Jon’s throat, resentment in all it’s addictive glory.

“Why did you bring me here?” Jon asks, turning to watch Peter’s face. It’s difficult, the light of the room is muted and dim, shifting with the water in the great tanks. 

Something breaks off from the massive pit of a creature and swims by, something with far too many teeth for even a shark. Its shadow casts over Peter, leaving him dark. For a moment Jon thinks he’ll vanish where he stands, melt into the mist that clings to him, forever gone from anyone’s life but his own.

“Why not?” Peter’s gaze is still on the tank, likely following the trail of the terrible creature that didn’t belong there. “You’re obviously getting cabin fever.”

“I’ve had that for months,” Jon answers bluntly, stepping in the way of the tank to force Peter’s gaze. “What do you want? Are you going to feed me to some… evil fish or whatever it is Simon Fairchild stirred up?”

That makes Peter laugh, a sound that grates against Jon’s last nerve and has him step forward into Peter’s space. “Oh, this is funny now? If it isn’t millipedes why not this? You-“

Before Jon can finish his thought Peter pushes him, forcing him to step back until his back hits the glass wall of the floor to ceiling tank. This close he can hear the water so clearly, gentle churning to offset how his heart beats rapidly. Peter must feel it too, he thinks, Peter’s hand still flat on his chest.

“If I was going to feed you to anything it wouldn’t be the Falling Titan,” Peter tells him, leaned in close like a secret. 

Jon swallows, yet still his tone radiates scorn. “You seemed fine feeding me to bugs.”

“You fed yourself to bugs,” Peter points out. As Peter’s hand runs up to his shoulder, to cup his neck, Jon realizes he still isn’t panicked. “Or should I say you made a meal of him.”

“God, you never _shut up_,“ Jon hisses, and isn’t sure who breaks the distance between them. It’s different from any kiss they’ve shared before, lacks the tentative nature, the exploration and novelty. It’s more of a fight than a kiss, one Jon knows he can’t win but still tries to anyway. 

He thinks he might even win the round when he bites at Peter’s bottom lip, making him shudder and hold Jon tighter. When Peter finally pulls away his lips are red and he isn’t smirking. He just watches Jon like he’s forgotten his painstaking social mimicry, his protective bravado. A dark part of Jon wants to dig in and see what he finds in this hairline fracture.

“I wanted to see what you’d do,” Peter answers, one that takes Jon a moment to parse. “You didn’t bat an eye at the tragedy here. A month ago and you’d be a morose bore.”

“I don’t know what happened here,” Jon argues.

Peter’s smile is infuriatingly, mockingly patient. “Yes you do.”

He hates how Peter isn’t wrong- fine, he doesn’t know the details but he knows the script of this world. Someone was scared, someone was helpless, someone was eaten and someone else watched. Terror was planted anew to be harvested later, whenever that trembling girl out front looked at deep water.

“I hate you,” Jon tells him, grabbing hard at Peter’s shirt. “I’m not your toy to wind up and watch go.”

“No, you’re my husband,” Peter answers, and his bland tone doesn’t do enough to hide the possessive note. It makes Jon shiver, one he pretends is dread as he kisses Peter again to shut him up.

—

They walk back in silence, only the sound of the Thames and the city around them. Jon’s lips sting and lord, how long has it been since he’s felt that? The lingering effects of a truly ridiculous session of making out like rowdy teenagers, the need to tug his collar up as though some passing stranger will notice the marks there.

When they get home Jon makes a b-line for the shower, needing the privacy and respite away from Peter. Isolating himself, he thinks in dull amusement, so Peter will likely appreciate the sentiment. He wonders if Peter got what he wanted out of whatever this outing really was. A distraction, pigtail pulling, Jon doesn’t know.

The water doesn’t go cold in this damnable building so Jon’s forced to leave the warm confines of the shower at his own discretion. He gets dressed, gets a book and goes to their bed, brow furrowing as he settles and reads the same sentence once, then twice.

Something soft smacks him in the face, makes him drop his book and fumble with- a plush doll. A stuffed octopus, he realizes when he has it firmly in his grip, ringed like the very deadly breed. It’s incredibly soft and Jon glances up to see Peter smirking at him. Smirking and throwing his shirt on the floor_ again._

“What is this?” Before Peter can speak Jon cuts him off. “I know it’s a stuffed octopus.”

“You asked.”

“You know what I mean!”

“What, you never went to the gift shop? Depressing,” Peter muses as he drops his slacks and boxers. Jon refuses to look away like a blushing damsel.

“When did you even have time?” Jon asks, then looks back at the damned thing. He squeezes it and tries not to overtly approve of how nice it feels to do so, all pleasant, gentle textures. “Is this supposed to be a gift? The octopi were your favorite exhibit, not mine.”

“If you had better taste that wouldn’t be a problem.” Peter pulls on his pajama pants, the ones with little anchors that Jon assumes Peter picked out with great pleasure. Better taste, Jon can’t stop the helpless snort that erupts from his chest.

“Pick up your clothes, we still have a hamper,” he settles on, placing the octopus in the middle of the bed between them rather than deal with it any longer.

Peter crawls into his side, amusement in the unsettling hollow that makes up his gaze. He reaches over faster than Jon can react, pinching at a mark he sucked into Jon’s neck. “You’re welcome. Sleep well, Jon.”

Jon huffs and rolls to face away from Peter, abandoning his book to the end table. It annoys him to realize he may have had a decent time of things, that for the first time in months he’s spent a large stretch not given in to paranoia or hopeless despair.

Just fear, the startingly agony of the deep and the more visceral fear of how easy it is to only remember Peter’s lips against his and not the trembling, haunted woman they passed at the entrance.

—

Jon expects Peter to be gone the next few days, typical for him after he spends any substantial amount of time with Jon. He isn’t sure if it’s just him or everyone, some instinct to isolate after the no doubt harrowing effort of socializing for a man dedicated to loneliness in all forms. It’s not as though Jon doesn’t understand, hasn’t fled to solitude after long, exhausting days with classmates or even too long with Georgie at his side.

Peter would no doubt love to hear that just to tell him all the ways he’s so suited for The One Alone, smarmy prick that he is.

So Jon’s understandably surprised to find Peter looking out at the Thames when he wakes and pads into the main room, the balcony door open and the city suspiciously silent. Jon blinks, hesitates only a moment before going to make his morning coffee. Peter prefers tea in the morning but Jon doesn’t really care, fixes him a cup with the amount of sugar and milk he remembers Peter using before and brings it to the balcony.

“Here,” he says, offering the steaming mug to Peter, who looks over in faint surprise, as if he didn’t hear Jon coming. That expression vanishes quickly enough, a little smirk as he takes the mug.

“What a dutiful husband,” Peter offers him and Jon rolls his eyes.

“Behave better and maybe I’ll make you tea next time,” is Jon’s answer. He starts heading back into his own coffee, stopped by Peter’s hand at the crook of his arm.

Peter’s expression is serious in a way that twists Jon’s stomach, an anxious little knot that only tightens when he speaks. “We’re going back to Moorland tonight.”

Ah, Jon thinks distractedly, there’s the panic he’s been missing. It crashes down on him, sets his muscles rigid and hands shaking. Was that the point of the aquarium? A treat before dragging him back to that place? Did they find out about his investigations- if they did, what would they do? Was there anything left for the house to tear from him, any sliver of meat still on his bones?

“Why?” he hears himself saying, feels his mouth form the words calmly even though his voice feels far away.

“Funeral,” Peter answers, and Jon wonders if he truly doesn’t care about Jon’s panic or if Jon’s become as bland and placid as this awful family, hiding it all inside. “My cousin died so we’re burying him. It’s the duty of the whole family to be there.”

“Oh,” Jon manages, tries to drag the maelstrom down down down, lets the words settle carefully amongst the buzzing in his head. Assuming Peter’s telling the truth that doesn’t sound terrible- fine, yes, someone dying was but Jon at least thinks it means no one’s getting thrown into the basement or ritually sacrificed.

He almost laughs, almost, calming enough to watch Peter’s profile facing the Thames. Peter doesn’t look upset so much as contemplative, alone with his own thoughts even as Jon stands right beside him. Jon wonders if Peter’s ever mourned someone. He wonders if Peter would mourn him, and finds the answer to that matters if the sick drop in is gut is any indication.

“Well… I’m sorry about your cousin, I suppose,” Jon tries, awkward enough Peter laughs.

“It’s his own fault, yeah? He actually thought he could turn his back on all of it, all of us.” Peter takes a sip of his coffee, large hands cupping the mug as he brings it back down, a rueful shake of his head. “Dumb bastard. We all end up back at Moorland in the end.”

Jon’s throat feels tight as he asks, “What was his name?”

“Evan.”

It takes a considerable amount of effort not to laugh, not to turn and run right there. Peter’s still watching the Thames and Jon focuses on breathing, slow and steady inhales as his fingers shake minutely. 

“We’ll leave in an hour, probably be there until tomorrow evening. Bring a change of clothes and something nice,” Peter finally looks over at him, lips quirked. “I happen to have a suit for you in the closet.”

“Of course you do,” Jon answers, struggling against a hysterical laugh. “Fine. An hour.”

He heads back inside, looks back only to find Peter lost again in his own thoughts. It’s easy to calmly take his coffee and head into their bedroom, shove the mug on the end table and smother jagged cry in his pillow. 

—

The drive is somehow longer than he remembers it. Peter drives them, which surprises Jon, expecting a driver and one of the sleek, fancy Lukas cars with a screen to separate passenger and driver. Not that Peter’s car isn’t disgustingly overpriced, some model Jon knows costs most people several years worth of paychecks. He’d comment on it if he wasn’t struggling to keep his mind in order, keep from shaking apart.

Evan dead, just… gone. Back to where he spent so much to flee from, back with his family just as he feared. _We all end up back at Moorland_, Peter said, and it sends a sick chill down Jon’s spine. He’s a Lukas now too, as much as he fights it, and he knows the words to be true.

Was this somehow Jon’s fault? He hasn’t heard the cause of death and Peter hasn’t made any comment, seemed any more morose or secretive. He cracks jokes on the way but is otherwise quiet, exactly what Jon would expect normally. It’s possible the family knows Jon questioned him, it’s possible they didn’t and were still involved in destroying this wayward betrayer and his dangerous secrets. It doesn’t seem possible Evan simply died, not in their horror story.

When they reach the house Jon braces himself to be dragged away the moment they enter the door. He considered opening the car door on the way and rolling out, trying to run and at least making them work for it. He considered trying to crash them, jerking the steering wheel until Peter hit a tree and hoping he survived- hoping Peter survived, because he doesn’t wish Peter dead.

Instead of condemnation and imprisonment they’re met with nothing, no one, just the empty main hall. Peter walks ahead, taking their luggage up the stairs and Jon follows, heart in his throat.

It isn’t until they’re in Peter’s room that Jon calms somewhat, feels some measure of laughable safety. Peter throws their bag on the bed, flips it open to pull out the carefully encased suits on their hangers. Black, Jon can see through the clear wrapping. White shirt, black tie, not a spot of color to be seen.

“What are funerals like here?” Jon asks, his curiosity finally digging its way through his paranoia and gloom. “You said he turned his back on your family.”

“Doesn’t mean he isn’t a Lukas still,” Peter answers with a smile, bland and uncomfortable against Jon’s nerves. He continues speaking as he hangs up their suits. “Plenty of the family don’t stay close, run off the second they get. They feed our patron in their own way, with the broken homes they create or the isolated life they live. Evan was stupid enough to try and escape even that.”

“He didn’t want to feed it.”

“Suppose so. We were never close,” Peter answers like a joke as he shrugs off his shirt. Rain begins slamming against the window, the storm they saw brewing on the drive blooming into a shrieking squall. 

“We take him back where he belongs, to answer your other question,” continues Peter, smiling again when he sees the blood race from Jon’s face. “The graveyard, not under the house. It really terrifies you, doesn’t it?”

“Shut up,” Jon answers irritably, pushing past him to open his own suit. He’s long since lost any nerves he had over changing in front of Peter, or anyone really. It feels so pointless now to care what anyone thinks about his body, which has always been perfectly serviceable if not a particular joy. 

The fabric is as fine as their wedding suits, cool like water against his skin. When he reaches the tie Peter stops him, takes it from his trembling, clumsy fingers and loops it around his neck. Jon watches him, imagines Peter tightening that knot and pulling until Jon’s lips went blue, until he fell to the floor and long after he stopped moving.

“You’re at your best when you’re terrified,” Peter tells him as he finishes tying, straightens his work against Jon’s fluttering chest.

Jon doesn’t know what to say to that, swallows as Peter pulls away. Something snaps and Jon grabs at him, pulls him in by Peter’s own neat tie and kisses him. It flares the lingering soreness in his lips from the night before, and when he pulls back Jon can’t help but lick the swell of his bottom lip before he flees to the bathroom.

By the time he composes himself and returns to the room Peter isn’t there. There’s a note on the desk telling him to come downstairs when he’s ready, and Jon seriously considers staying put instead, forcing Peter to come and drag him along.

Ultimately he lets that thought go, heads out and down. Unlike their arrival the house is full of people now, all pale, unfriendly faces in black. Jon recognizes some but not most, moves through and wishes he felt more like an outsider than he does. If anything the people feel barely there, just set dressing to dramatic production he’s stumbled onto, unnerving but insubstantial.

When he finds Peter again it’s on the first floor, standing with Conrad at a window. The latter doesn’t so much as nod to him, just glances him over as he reaches Peter’s side.

“She’s here,” Conrad says, and before Jon can ask he hears the front door open a room away.

It takes Jon a moment but he recognizes the shivering woman who walks in, soaked from the rain and eyes full of despair. She was at the bar he met Evan at, sat back with Evan’s friends as he and Jon spoke. The girlfriend, Jon assumes, and for a moment his breath catches, wondering if she’ll recognize him.

Her eyes slide over him ultimately as she heads deeper into the house, following an ancient man. “What’s going to happen to her?” Jon asks quietly, glad when Conrad ignores him but Peter leans in.

“She’ll either go home and live the rest of her life with the knowledge she’ll never recapture the connection she’s lost or she’ll get lost on the way home.”

“Lost,” Jon repeats, not a question so much as an understanding. His fingers clench with the urge to warn her, to try and reach her before that happens, but Peter puts a hand at the small of his back.

“Your heart is bleeding,” he warns in a singsong. Jon exhales and feels as though some poison leaves him in that breath, brings him back to a calm he needs to survive this.

Ultimately the girl, Naomi, runs out of the house, leaving the swarm of pale faces to descend on the body. Jon just follows with Peter, out into the rain, out into the graveyard that seems to stretch for eternity. Even in a crowd he feels singular, exactly the way he did the one and only time he went to visit his grandmother’s grave. Alone in the world, aware of how fickle and short connections are, so certain of all that would always be left unsaid. Futile.

—

When they return to the house everyone seems to vanish to their own rooms, their own corners. Even Peter, who kept close all throughout the ceremony, is nowhere to be seen. Jon wanders down the halls, avoiding the art that presses down upon his back. He should go back to Peter’s room, wait out whatever comes next and hope they can leave earlier than Peter estimated.

Instead he walks, pausing to close his eyes and feel the house. It’s different, he realizes, wraps him up in a way that is nothing like his first stay here. Now he can feel the halls creak like great, heaving lungs, breathing so slowly, so surely. Underneath his feet isn’t a heartbeat but the churn of a great stomach. He wonders where this house makes its maw, where it bites down and swallows.

He reaches the old library eventually, feet taking him to that first place he spoke to Peter. The mural stands in all its glory but the golden string seems brighter somehow, the maze cavernous. A mouth ready to bite down, he thinks in amusement. It really isn’t a funny joke.

Voices make him stir, and he’s struck with the strangest feeling of irritation at his peace being disturbed. Another bad joke, how his first stay here he would have given anything to be interrupted, even just to hear someone else’s voice. He steps back amongst the shelves, fingers bracing against the wood. Just like the nosy child he used to be all over again, listening to his grandmother’s phone calls or his teacher’s hushed tones when they didn’t know he was there.

Conrad he recognizes by voice, and he’s surprised when the man doesn’t instantly find him in the gloom of the room. He’s talking to a woman, stopping by to take a book from the fireplace mantle, speaking in low tones of projects with such scientific jargon Jon can’t comprehend it.

Dull, ultimately, until the woman says, “Peter’s husband surprised me.”

“He seemed the stubborn type, though I agree. I doubt anyone imagined he’d make it this far,” Conrad answers. “I wonder if Nathaniel regrets what it means for Peter yet. Maybe this was his plan.”

“His plan?”

“Imagine what will happen if Peter lowers his guard enough to care,” Conrad continues, shutting the book with a snap. “I suspect Nathaniel’s using this to weed out that lingering weakness in Peter or destroy him with it. You know how he gravitates towards the curious sort.”

The woman says nothing as they leave, even though Jon feels her malicious amusement. He stands very still for a long time, trying to process what any of that meant. The curious sort? Since when has Peter gravitated towards anyone at all?

(He still feels the chill of the tank’s glass at his back as Peter leans in. _My husband,_ easy on his lips.)

Jon hurries back upstairs, slams Peter’s door shut and tries to understand why his heart is beating so fast. Weeding out weakness, destroying- they must know what could destroy a man like Peter. And what could destroy him, someone so deeply devoted to the lonely, smiling into the fog?

Being known, he thinks in Evan’s heavy tone. 

Jon swallows and sits at the window, ignores the way the wind howls and gnashes outside. It could just be idle gossip and chatter, he’s heard enough from the corners of the house this evening. Still he thinks of the times he wanted to pry Peter open, understand how he works. The way Peter’s look turned so complicated when Jon’s words struck true- fear maybe. Longing too, the sole reason Peter keeps coming back.

He tries to clutch to the time he wanted Peter dead and finds it fizzle. He’s just not the murderous sort, maybe, but this idea brings up such a horror in him it leaves his hands shaking anew. The idea he could hurt Peter this way, just because-

Jon’s breath catches as the thought slips easily through his mind. Just because he loves Peter. 

He startles violently when the door opens, Peter walking in with a roll of his broad shoulders. “See? Wasn’t so bad, was it now?”

Jon’s jaw works as Peter kicks off his shoes, and when he finally finds his voice it’s faint. “Yes, an absolutely pleasant time.”

Peter glances at him, brow raised when his tone doesn’t quite capture the needed sarcasm, too quiet. He walks over to the soundtrack of white noise in Jon’s head, tapping Jon’s chin until he’s looking up at Peter. “Oh, that bleeding heart, hm?”

Heart does seem to be the problem, he thinks before shoving it all down, all of it, every thought and panicked thump of his heart. He stands when Peter offers him a hand, his own fingers dwarfed in Peter’s grip.

“Let’s just get to bed. The sooner we can leave the better.” He manages a shade of himself, enough that Peter looks satisfied that he won’t shatter at a touch.

“We could break in the bed properly now, if you’re so inclined,” Peter winks as he steps away, loosening his tie.

“Don’t test your luck,” answers Jon.

As they settle in bed Jon stares at the canopy overhead, boring a hole into it before he turns towards Peter. He shifts closer, mind screaming at him to explain what he thinks he’s doing. Apparently huddling close is the answer, much to Peter and his own surprise, tucking his head under Peter’s jaw. His heart raises a storm in his chest, thumping so loudly Jon’s sure Peter must feel it when he finally pulls Jon closer, arm across his waist as they both settle.

Jon’s eyes burn so he closes them. Stockholm syndrome, he tells himself. Self destruction. Even still he falls asleep too easily, to the much steadier beat of Peter’s heart.

—

Peter’s true to his word and they leave the following day. The worst of the storm is over and Jon spends the ride carefully blank. That night at home Peter doesn’t come to bed and Jon is relieved even as his heart aches. He doesn’t think about love, doesn’t think about anything he doesn’t need to, body too drained from the panicked rollercoaster to stay awake long.

The next day he wakes up late, stays in bed rather than bother with breakfast. He needs to get up, he knows, maybe call Elias and ask him what he knows of all this. Surely Elias will be able to tell him more, if Conrad is right about his little theory, if it wasn’t some prank. Conrad could have known he was there, said it to rile him. Peter could be safe, and Jon-

He eventually gets dressed, decides he’ll do just that, call Elias and meet him for lunch and get on top of things. Who else does he have? Certainly not Georgie, who can’t know about all this. At the very least Elias seems allies with Peter, won’t wish him gone and useless.

There’s voices in the flat though, ones ringing loud enough down the hall that Jon closes the bedroom door behind him quietly and listens. The sound… not arguing but close, a snappishness to the conversation that isn’t easy or friendly. He can’t make out what’s being said so he moves a little closer, freezing when he makes out words.

“Who would have thought you so possessive of your relationships, Peter.” That’s Elias, tone markedly cooler than Jon’s ever heard it, the amusement sharp like a twisted knife.

Peter chuckles, and Jon remembers suddenly that these two worlds aren’t so separate, that Peter and Elias knew each other for far longer than they ever knew him. Of course he knew that, he always has, but they’ve remained so neatly compartmentalized he can’t help but feel like he did as a child, caught red handed breaking yet another rule.

“No, you’re the possessive one, remember?” Peter asks, and before Jon can decide what to do next Peter’s voice calls, “Why don’t you join us, Jon?”

Jon swallows, irritated at his own cowering in the hallway as though two monsters of sight and fog couldn’t tell he was eavesdropping. He steps out to the living room, frowning to see Elias seated comfortably on the sofa, long legs crossed before him, and Peter standing nearby. There’s a bottle in his hands- the gin, damnit, is that what clued him off? Peter pours a glass and holds it out to Jon. As always his expression isn’t one Jon can read, gives nothing away without a fight.

He takes the glass, flops into an arm chair as he resigns himself to whatever this is. “Elias,” he greets for lack of anything better to say.

Elias smiles, amusement losing its cruel edge. “Good to see you again, Jon. Your husband was just singing your praises.”

“Really? Because it sounded more like you two were bickering,” Jon answers, resisting the urge to wince when he belatedly realizes he’s doing his old, delightful trick of making things worse with blunt, ornery quips. Classic, really, Georgie would have plenty to say to that.

As always Elias is suspiciously patient, maybe even amused further. “Were we bickering, Peter?”

“If that’s what the kids call it these days,” Peter answers as he puts the gin away. Jon risks a glance over, feels a truly bizarre guilt when Peter continues, “You never mentioned spending time with Elias.”

“You never told me I had to.” It’s not a snap but it’s close, defensive as Jon sits back in his chair. “Unlike you Elias at least tries to help me understand this world we’re apparently deeply part of.”

“Oh? And what understanding did you glenn?”

That has Jon bite the inside of his cheek, a glance to Elias only showing Elias watching them both like a vaguely interesting dinner show. Prick, Jon thinks to himself. At least he’s fairly certain Elias won’t tell Peter anything about Evan, not unless Elias really does want something terrible to happen to him.

“We talked about you,” Jon says after a moment, eyes sliding back to Peter and how that catches his attention. It’s a tactic, he knows very well Peter will squirm with the idea of being focused on like that, secret conversations outside the scope of his own, self contained world.

Deeper still it terrifies Jon to say, Conrad’s words still fresh in his mind. Talking about Peter, understanding him like a knife to his throat. Jon swallows and continues. “Apparently he knows you well.”

“Jealous?” Peter asks, bright in a way that isn’t all amusement.

“Maybe I will be if you can tell me more about Elias,” Jon answers as calmly as he can muster.

This seems to surprise Elias, turns his attention to Jon with a sharpness that gives him away. Turn them against each other, how manipulative, Jon thinks humorlessly. Or maybe just see whose side Peter is really on.

Peter smiles slowly, walking over to Jon’s chair and sliding a hand over his shoulder. “He’s fun, isn’t he? And he isn’t wrong. I have a few stories about you, don’t I?”

With that he moves to Elias, and Jon is surprised at how Elias lets him effortlessly into his space, doesn’t so much as flinch as Peter flops beside him and pulls him closer. Jon watches Peter’s hand run up Elias’ thigh, how Elias turns to him like two great, rotating bodies.

“Oh,” Jon manages a little faintly. “Wait, have you been cheating on me?”

That snaps bother their attention to him, Elias faintly amused and Peter laughing. Jon flushes, harder still against the agonizing discovery he made about his own feelings for Peter. Before he can snap Peter answers. “Darling, come here.”

It’s mocking and Jon struggles against it, curiosity versus his stubborn nature. Elias offers an encouraging look and finally Jon stands, walks over until Elias stands to face him. “Peter and I have always had an understanding, you could say.”

“You were toying with me,” Jon answers, tries to dredge up some feeling behind that as Elias takes his hand. He thumbs at Jon’s ring, the one Jon barely remembers is there anymore unless the sun glints off it the right way. 

“I was curious,” Elias corrects. “And you were the one to call me, remember Jon?”

Elias isn’t wrong, not by a long shot. Jon glances at Peter, sees the interest under his placid mask. 

“Come to my place for dinner,” Elias continues, looking to Jon for once, as if Jon is the one to make this decision. He doesn’t know what he’s agreeing to, a friendly dinner or some sexual nonsense or… whatever it is radiates between Peter and Elias.

Peter says nothing, gives nothing away. Jon’s curiosity wins out, as it always does, even as he pretends he’s not soaking up the warmth of Elias’ hand on his. Like he doesn’t want to see his home.

“Fine. When?”

“Tomorrow, I think. Peter?” Elias asks, glancing to Peter, who nods. Instead of dropping Jon’s hand Elias lifts it, places a kiss on his knuckles and pulls back. “Excellent. I’ll take my leave then.”

It’s only then that he drops Jon’s hand, Jon starting after him. When the front door shuts he finally snaps himself out of it, glances to Peter. “What just happened?”

“He’s like that,” Peter answers, amused as Jon takes Elias’ vacated seat next to him.

“And you’re about as helpful as ever. Why didn’t you tell me you had a boyfriend?”

That makes Peter laugh, startled by his own reaction. “A boyfriend. I like to think of it as more like allies with benefits.”

“Yes, of course, why would I ever think you have something as mundane as a boyfriend,” Jon sneers, batting Peter’s hand away as he reaches to actually tug Jon’s hair rather than his metaphorical pigtails. 

“And why would I ever think you’d realize you were going on dates with Elias for how long now?”

“They weren’t dates,” Jon mutters, glancing over to see Peter’s expression approach something like fond. A pit forms in his stomach, and maybe this is a good thing. A chance to talk to Elias about Conrad, a way to distract himself from this revelation that can’t be right. Someone to distract Peter in turn, someone whose care hasn’t destroyed him yet, if there’s any care between the two.

“Penny for your thoughts?” Peter asks, and Jon lets out a soft sigh.

“What do you want for lunch?” he asks in return, burying himself again.


	10. ten

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> farewells

It’s difficult to relax the night before this dinner invitation Elias extended, and so casually too. Jon makes a meal he doesn’t end up touching, tucks it into the fridge for Peter to scavenge as he pleases. It’s so painfully domestic against the oddity of it all Jon nearly throws the whole thing out.

Peter is nowhere because why would he be when Jon has more questions. His husband just slipped away when Jon turned his head as he always did, no doubt finding the whole situation hilarious in his childishly sadistic way. It leaves Jon to his own mind, a place too full of conflicting information to make for a relaxing evening.

Not that he can’t stubbornly try. He draws a bath in their disgustingly luxurious bathtub, forgoes any of the salts and oils Peter has in the little closet there. It makes for a good distraction, wondering if those products came with whoever stocks this house behind his back or if Peter was actually the type to have a full spa day, just smelly, perfumed nonsense clogging up the air as he lounges in the tub. It makes Jon snort, all too easy to imagine with what he knows now of Peter. Lord knew the man wasn’t touched by petty things like embarrassment or sensibility when he could be having a good time.

By the time Jon climbs out of the tub he’s wrinkled but calmer, focusing on the immediate problem of Elias’ dinner. Peter implied Jon’s meetings with Elias had been dates, but as much as Jon painstakingly picks through the interactions he simply can’t find a tell. Yes, Elias was… friendly, charming in his way, but surely if there was any actual flirting it was subtle. Jon may be a _touch_ dense in such areas but he’s not blind, thank you.

Not that it really mattered, given Elias was not subtle about his intentions here. Still Jon can’t quite understand- was this a sexual thing? Did he accidentally accept an invitation into Elias’ bed, his husband in tow? If it wasn’t sexual what else could it possibly be? People didn’t really date married couples.

Well, no, he supposes he’s known a poly couple or two in uni, not particularly well but enough that the idea isn’t entirely foreign. He sighs as he takes a towel to his hair, ruffling through it before wrapping said towel around his waist. The mirror is only starting to clear and he wipes it with his palm, revealing his face under the fog.

Jon’s never understood attraction, ‘hotness’ and the like, though he has some grasp of aesthetics. He looks at himself and tries to see what Elias sees (or Peter, a niggling thought interjects.) His eyes and hair always got the compliments, his father’s dark lashes and his mother’s thick hair, as his grandmother would tell him in a tone full of melancholy.

Aside from that he doesn’t really see the appeal, objectively. The new sickly pale shade of his skin doesn’t help matters- perhaps Peter was born into it but Jon really does look like he’s wasting away with something awful and terminal. Sharp features, pinched and severe, too intense and decidedly unfriendly. Hunched shoulders, bad posture when he isn’t conscious of it. Too tired.

Jon sighs, turning his gaze away. Not that it really matters, though it does make him suspicious of Elias’ motives. So far he’s assumed Elias indulged him out of curiosity, the compulsion to voyeur Jon’s horror story in real time. Maybe for Elias that’s the attraction, more powerful than looks or personality. Peter certainly always leaned closer when Jon fell to lonely contemplation.

After brushing his hair into order with his fingers Jon steps out of the bathroom and into their bedroom proper, freezing when he sees Peter at their bed. He has his familiar reading glasses on, this time thumbing through a book of… poetry? When he looks up and pointedly rakes his eyes over Jon’s body Jon gives him an unimpressed look back, turning before any traitorous color can rise to his cheeks.

“Since when do you read poetry?” Jon asks, pauses a moment before adding, “Let me guess, it’s just melodramatic and aching enough for your questionable tastes.”

That makes Peter laugh behind him as Jon searches for one of his oversized sleep shirts. “Not a fan of poetry?”

“Not particularly. If you have something to say then why not just write it properly?” is Jon’s answer. He pulls on his shirt, long enough he can pull off his towel and get into his boxers without feeling too exposed. When he finally looks back to Peter the man looks amused, watching Jon in that peculiar, bland way of his.

“Have I mentioned you are truly the soul of romance?” Peter asks as Jon climbs onto his side of the bed.

“Once or twice.”

Peter turns back to his book, smirks when Jon shifts close enough to catch the words on the page but is otherwise blessedly silent. Jon doesn’t recognize any of what he sees--

_Fortunate one,_

_scented and stinging,_

_rigid myrrh-bud,_

_camphor-flower,_

_sweet and salt._

Still hardly his cup of tea, though he can just about make out the shape of Peter’s interest. Maybe in Moorland House this was all he had of emotion, the words people poured out over the years of love and loss and loneliness. 

Eventually Peter closes the book, just around the time Jon’s eyes begin to droop. Jon turns to shut off his bedside light, settling in against his pillow as he tries to ignore Peter’s quiet shuffling behind him. That turns out to be impossible when Peter’s arm snakes around his waist, pulling him in and against Peter’s chest as Jon sucks in a surprised breath.

He waits for something- mockery, a come on, some comment to firmly set a distance between them despite their position. Instead Peter is quiet, just… _spooning_ him. Peter’s broad chest rises and falls, the whole of it against Jon’s back and warm. Not unlike their night in Moorland but somehow impossibly different in ways Jon isn’t sure he can process.

He should pull away but he can’t. Instead he melts, predictably so, eyes burning for a moment at the overwhelming feeling of being held. Jon’s always had a strange relationship with touch, hated it so much from strangers as a child he assumed he must hate being touched at all, ignoring the relief those few times his grandmother hugged him, put a hand on his shoulder.

Georgie made it all the more apparent, how lovely it was to rest his head on her shoulder, feel her fingers through his hair, how different it was with someone he trusted. 

(With someone he loved.)

Trusting Peter is a laughable thing, though Jon supposes by now he trusts Peter to be himself. Even this he can begin to unwind and see clearly, Peter’s want and possessiveness, his own need to touch that he takes like a child, no words or contemplation. Again not unlike how Jon curled close that night in Moorland house, bracing for rejection.

Peter doesn’t feel braced, only pulls Jon slightly closer still when Jon doesn’t pull away. His breath is warm and Jon closes his eyes, finds it far too easy to slip away.

—

“What are we doing?” Jon asks as they get ready to depart to Elias’ place. He scowls over his clothing options, still deeply offended at how excessive they all were. At least he can’t under dress but still, it’s criminally wasteful.

Peter’s already dressed, and somehow he manages to look under dressed regardless of the quality of his clothes. Mostly because his shirt is unbuttoned too low by at least one button, making Jon march over in his boxers to fix the matter.

“You’re dressing me, apparently,” Peter informs him as Jon buttons him up a little, pulling back and waiting to see if Peter just undoes his work immediately. Peter behaves, which doesn’t mean much in Jon’s book.

“You know what I mean, don’t play dumb for a moment,” is Jon’s irritable answer. “I mean this dinner. What is this, really?”

“Well, sometimes when a man likes a married couple very much-“ Peter starts, laughing when Jon throws his hands up and vanishes into the closet. It’s strange to feel so alive again, his well worn nerves spiking in a way that feels normal instead of life and death.

Peter follows him in, pulls out a shirt that’s simple enough, if not a little too sleek somehow. Jon eyes it before taking it, even allows Peter to pull out slacks and shoes. At least if he looks ridiculous he’ll have Peter to blame.

“Elias likes his little games,” Peter continues as Jon starts to undress, leaning against the doorframe while Jon tries to ignore his gaze. “I find it best to indulge him on occasion. Wouldn’t want him getting ornery.”

“Oh yes, because you never play games,” Jon mutters as he pulls on his slacks. “So this is a game then?”

“You really refuse to just accept it’s a date, don’t you?”

“It’s- I just don’t understand, is this for you? You two seem to have something, so is this all a tug of war? Is this just a curiosity, a passing evening with the bizarre Lonely cult married couple?” Jon starts, buttoning his shirt up in agitation. “Forgive me if wanting to know where I stand is so laughable to you.”

“And again you don’t admit it could be because he wants to have you over for dinner. Really darling, your self loathing is delicious,” Peter muses, sounding so sincere in his enjoyment that Jon only barely keeps from driving his own head into a wall.

He’s fully dressed now though, pushes past Peter so he can sit and slip on his shoes. He can feel Peter’s eyes on him as Peter asks, “Why did you accept his invitation?”

Jon rubs his palms on his knees, frowns over the easy answers that don’t ring quite true- he was rushed into the decision, he needs to talk to Elias anyway. The real answer eludes him, though there’s enough truth in simple curiosity. He wants to see what would happen, maybe more so he wants to see Elias and Peter together, how they play off each other, what Elias brings out in Peter. What Peter brings out in Elias.

With a sigh he stands. “Curiosity,” he admits, grabs his coat and glances back to Peter. “Why did you agree?”

Peter just shrugs, the ass, hand brushing Jon’s lower back as he passes. “Better move, we’re going to be late.”

Peter isn’t any more forthcoming on the drive over, leaving Jon to huff and sulk out the window instead. It doesn’t escape his notice he’s been going out far more in the past month, feels healthy and _normal_ rather than a jittery walking corpse. That in particular confuses him more than the sudden freedom of movement- he hasn’t ‘fed,’ has he? He hasn’t been as miserably lonely as he used to be, not with Peter, Elias and even Georgie in reasonable doses. He certainly hasn’t eaten someone either, an act he prays he’d remember well.

Jon rubs his arms and frowns out the car window, watching the dull, washed out people go by as he fingers go tight against his sleeve. He’s so tired of question upon question with no answers. Tonight, at least, he can ask Elias what Conrad Lukas meant by pitting Jon against Peter. Assuming Peter gives him the chance to speak privately with their host.

—

Elias lives in a penthouse as well, a fact Jon couldn’t find less shocking. This building isn’t quite as absurd as theirs, close to the Magnus Institute if Jon’s internal map is correct. It’s rather hard to imagine Elias walking to work on a pleasant day, enjoying the morning air before going in to catalogue centuries worth of unending horror. At least Peter and his ridiculous ship have the sort of melodramatic grandeur Jon expects from the man.

The doorman directs them to an elevator that leads directly to the penthouse, eyes kept down and away from them like he thinks it better to not see their faces. Jon itches to ask after the kind of guests Elias Bouchard gets but Peter steers him to the elevator with a broad palm at Jon’s back.

He stays close even when the doors open to the penthouse proper. It’s about what Jon imagined, clean and disturbingly minimalist, not quite maliciously cold as their own place but about as welcoming as a glossy magazine ad. The view from the large, floor to ceiling windows is spectacular but Jon’s eyes go to a display cabinet instead, glass covering a bizarre array of knick knacks.

Peter detaches to find their host as Jon goes over to investigate. He half expects a Leitner but sees no books, just strange objects that somehow exude menace. A glass flower with too sharp petals, a little flute he thinks must be made of bone, most strikingly a broach with an opal at the center. Beautiful, or it should be, but instead the cracks of color in the opal seem to seep and burn his eyes. He doesn’t blink, can’t blink.

A hand startles him, long fingers at his wrist where he was reaching out. “Best not to play with those,” Elias tells him, close enough he barely needs to raise his voice above a whisper. His hand is warm, so much warmer than Peter. (So much warmer than Jon now with his greying skin.)

“I wasn’t _playing_,“ Jon mutters but steps back, surprised when Elias keeps his wrist a loose hostage. “What are these?”

“Artifacts of considerable power, and more so ones I enjoy the look of,” is Elias’ irritatingly easy answer. He leads Jon towards the disgustingly open kitchen where Peter has a glass of wine and leans back against the counter, eyes bland on them. 

“That doesn’t seem a very responsible place for them,” Jon tries, a quip that pleases Peter if his little smirk is anything to go off of.

“How many cleaning staff have you lost to them, Elias?”

“Far less than your building has lost to your whims,” Elias answers in a way that makes Jon wonder if it’s a friendly joke or a jab. That did seem his usual question when it came to these two, whether it was hate or care beneath all the layers they insisted on.

Elias hands him a glass of wine, a dark red that’s lost on Jon but he sips at any way. He goes next to Peter, tries not to examine the fact he feels a little better in Peter’s presence. Stockholm syndrome, he reminds himself as Elias and Peter discuss the Tundra- not even the interesting parts, the damned roster and fiances and a lot of other business jargon-heavy nonsense Jon tries not to roll his eyes at.

It gives him a chance to watch them at least, the strange comfort they have with each other despite the edge to how their glances meet. When that fails to keep his interest his gaze goes back to the display cabinet, wondering over that bizarre opal eye until again Elias distracts him, this time with a hand at his elbow.

“Shall we?”

Jon’s fairly certain the dining room table wasn’t set and covered in expensive looking sashimi the last time they passed it just moments before. He frowns, wonders if this is some spooky nonsense like Moorland or he was just that distracted. So much for keeping his wits about him.

“How did you and Peter meet?” Jon asks now that a lull is offered, jumping on the chance before they droned on more just to annoy him, he suspects. 

“A long time ago. I think my favorite time we met was that unseasonably cold spring,” Elias muses, making Peter snort as he pinched a piece of fish between his fingers.

“It would be, you were all shiny and new then,” is Peter’s confusing answer, much to Jon’s annoyance. It must show on his face because Elias gives him an indulgent smile, trailing his fingers over Jon’s wrist in such a casual way Jon has no idea how to respond.

“Perhaps I’ll show you what we mean. Far more interesting than telling, wouldn’t you say?”

“It depends on what I’m shown,” Jon murmurs, suitably distracted enough to turn his attention stubbornly to his meal. The meat is a lovely pinkish red, some an inviting orange and some white. It makes him think of the creature at the aquarium, wonder what it’s meat would look like sliced into pretty patterns on their plate. What color it would stain their teeth to eat.

He shudders at the thought and focuses on the edamame for a few moments.

The talk goes surprisingly comfortable, though it mostly becomes Jon asking Elias questions that he has to chase the answers to. Elias is maddening that way, dangling just enough information but not the whole truth, not the satisfying conclusion. He makes Jon work for it, agitating bastard that he is, and no wonder he and Peter get along so damned well. They certainly seem to share the hobby of dragging people along for their own amusement.

Not that Peter looks particularly amused, watches with bland eyes, sharpness bleeding at the edges. The meal is mostly picked through when his phone buzzes and Peter stands, smiles as he waves them off to take it. Business, he says.

“Boorish,” Elias sighs as he stands. It surprises Jon when Elias picks up the plates to bring to the kitchen rather than just leaving them for whatever servants or hired help hide out of sight. “He never did learn manners, did he?”

Jon watches after Peter a moment, frowning before he follows Elias into the kitchen. There Elias pours another glass of wine that he hands to Jon without looking back. Jon takes it, shoulders tight as he braces himself. This is his chance, he thinks then says, “I heard something at Moorland that concerns me.”

“Oh?” Elias asks as he pours his own glass. “I understand there was a funeral.”

“Evan,” Jon answers, dread blooming in his chest. “They said it was a heart defect.”

“Do you think it was?”

“… I don’t know. I think it’s just as likely to be foul play.”

Elias hums as he turns, leans back against the counter. “Perhaps. Now what concerns you?”

“It’s about Peter.” Jon glances behind him, half expecting Peter to be standing in the door. No, still on the balcony, but the fear of discovery makes his words faster. “Conrad and some woman were talking about me and Peter. They insinuated that Nathaniel married us so I would… I don’t know, hurt him? ‘Weed out lingering weakness or destroy him.’”

There’s no great shock over Elias’ face, no shock at all, which grates at Jon as much as it eases him. One elegant finger taps over his glass as he considers it, considers Jon with shockingly grey eyes. “A family like the Lukas’s doesn’t grow powerful without dedication and, occasionally, pruning.”

“But why? Peter is as devoted to the Lonely as any of them,” Jon snaps, swallows down this sudden ire rather than unleash it on Elias. He’s helping, Jon reminds himself. Or as close to help as Jon gets these days. “And what do they mean? Do they think I’ll kill him?”

“Jon,” Elias’ tone has a sigh on its edges, makes Jon’s back straighten nervously. It's too much like old, exasperated teachers not to shut him up, jaw achingly tense. “Surely you can figure that out with what you know now. I suspect you already have and are playing ignorant.”

Jon exhales slowly. “If Peter lets his guard down I could know him, and that’s… dangerous.”

“That would destroy him,” Elias answers as he puts his untouched wine on the counter. Jon watches the path of the marble as his mind races, as Elias steps forward and takes his own glass to put aside. “Peter is a lonely creature, so steeped in distance it’s part of every fiber of his being. He isn’t like Evan, now is he? He wouldn’t survive being truly seen.”

“I wouldn’t,” Jon tries, finally glancing up to be pinned by Elias’ sharp eyes. They hurt, he realizes, all of this hurts. Elias is peeling back layers and looking into Jon, that dangerous understanding. Jon’s fingers twitch with the urge to cover himself, but still he can’t break Elias’ gaze. “I’m not trying to kill him.”

“That just makes you more dangerous,” is Elias’ steady answer. “It’s in your nature to try and understand what you care for, isn’t it Jon?”

Elias breaks their gaze and Jon follows it, to the doorway where Peter steps in a moment later. He doesn’t seem particularly troubled to see his husband boxed into an island counter by another man, just quirks his brow at Elias. “Can’t leave you for a second.”

“I’m afraid it’s in my nature to be curious,” Elias says like an old joke Jon doesn’t follow, eyes landing on Jon’s again before he pulls back. “Now, I think I promised to show you a sample of one of the times Peter and I met.”

Elias pulls away like he expects them both to follow and Jon swallows the lump in his throat that bloomed during their conversation. It still all rings in his ears, answers he already knew but wanted desperately to be wrong about.

“I still don’t understand what you mean by ‘one of the times,’” he grumbles as Elias leads them to the living area.

He opens what looks like a normal wall and inside is a media center, one he hums over before a button’s press gives them violins. Peter chuckles when he hears it. “Ah, this meeting.”

“A dance?” Jon guesses and Peter smirks, extends a hand that Jon takes after only a moment’s hesitation.

He really shouldn’t be surprised when Peter twirls him and pulls him in close, forcing Jon to rest against him to keep his footing. He gives Peter a sharp look for it and Peter grins in return, a gentler twirl bringing Jon right again and Peter’s hand at his waist, dancing position.

“I’m not impressed,” Jon tells him, a little annoyed to find Peter leading them in a simple waltz. Jon follows the steps regardless, aware of Elias’ eyes on them even from behind Jon’s back.

“I am, who knew you could dance.”

“My grandmother insisted. She constantly told me I’d need it for my wedding day,” Jon answers dryly, a tone that makes Peter laugh.

“Are you cross we didn’t dance in the garden? Maybe I was wrong about you being the soul of romance.”

Jon rolls his eyes in answer, taking the lead with a spin just to prove a point. For a moment it’s like the garden, that moment in the gazebo ceremony where it felt he and Peter were the only people in the world, in the moment, in any moment. Then it was a horrifying swooping pit, his guts wrenched and boiled in his skin. Now it’s a well worn ache, a sweet pain but pain nonetheless. He doesn’t think anything about Peter would ever be kind enough not to hurt.

Their shell of a world cracks when a hand taps his shoulder, Elias behind him with a faint smile. “May I, Peter?” he asks and Peter takes the lead again to twirl Jon into Elias’ grip. 

Jon nearly stumbles but Elias is shockingly strong, steadies him with ease and sets a slower step that Jon follows. “This is how we met that time, at a dance and to this music.”

“A fundraiser?” Jon guesses as Elias turns them, pulling Jon along. 

“Precisely. Peter was a strapping young man and so was I. Imagine him with less grey but the same rumpled taste in fashion. If I remember he kept his hair longer back then, enough for a small ponytail. I asked him to dance and he performed admirably enough.”

Jon listens raptly as Elias feeds him the story, imagining them both with less lines on their face, less grey streaks in their hair. Before he can ask more, what he means by ‘that time,’ Peter’s hand closes on his shoulder, pulls him from Elias’ grip and slides into Jon’s place. It leaves Jon stumbling a little, settling back on the loveseat and watching as Peter takes the lead, hand large on Elias’ slim waist.

“Admirably enough? As I remember it you were the one who stumbled.”

“As I remember it you were the one who tried to drop me,” Elias responds, unimpressed. 

They dance less like partners and more like predators circling each other, like their gazes are trapped and locked. Elias lets Peter lead, Jon notices, though he makes Peter work for it, stubborn in the subtle way he moves them until he’s the one in place to dip Peter. 

“Like this,” Elias says, then moves to drop him, release his hold. Peter’s clearly expecting it and shifts his feet, recovers and spins them with a jagged smirk.

“As you can see some people have no problem recovering. Such a shame you have two left feet like this.”

That makes Elias laugh, a sound that surprises Jon. There’s no joy in it but it isn’t sour or bitter, holds a spark that Jon can pick out in how Elias watches Peter. It strikes him that he’s stepping in old territory, well worn paths, all complicated tangles that come from any long term relationship with a Lukas. Maybe the reason they’ve managed this long is they like hurting each other, Jon wonders. Otherwise he really can’t understand it at all.

The song slows and so does their dance, Peter leaning in close enough Jon thinks they’ll kiss right there as the final violin groans to a close. Maybe they feel his eyes because they both glance over, breaking the illusion that Jon isn’t there, that he’s watching from behind glass. Strangely he finds it disquieting to be remembered, aches for a moment to go back to that easy privacy of being ignored.

“You act like you’ve met for the first time more than once,” Jon points out, the armor of questions around him. Elias steps back from Peter, amusement still in the curl of his lip.

“We have, in a way. But I believe you’ll have to come to dinner again if you want another story.”

“Oh, so they’re bribery now?” Jon snorts, taking the hand Peter offers to pull him up.

Elias’ gaze is plain but intense, flaying in its sincerity. “If it gets you both back why not?”

Jon swallows, glances to Peter’s expression- subdued, somehow, the kind Jon thinks means he’s processing feelings he doesn’t know how to show on his face or doesn’t want to. He smirks for Jon when their eyes meet and Jon swallows, looks back to Elias.

“I suppose we’ll have to see,” he offers, as though their return isn’t a foregone conclusion, if only to watch the pair circle like predators again.

—

When they get home that night Jon walks to their kitchen and puts on the kettle. He can hear the faint clack of Peter’s shoes down the hall, wonders if Peter’s making himself heard or if Jon’s head is so full of fog these days he too is becoming the mist outside Moorland. What monster would he be, he wonders, if he gave himself entirely to Isolation? If Peter is the salt spray of the ocean maybe he’s the bitter chill. Wouldn’t Peter love that pointless poetry, two forces to weather a lost soul wandering the beach.

They have so many expensive teas but Peter’s tastes are surprisingly simple when it comes down to it. Jon learned that from observation, noticing which tin was emptiest after Peter came by, which he drank when Jon caught him sitting in the living area, ever alone. Jon picks that tin up now, just a dull, easy brand compared to the overpriced nonsense surrounding it. He wonders if Peter enjoys it sincerely or because it rebels against his extravagant upbringing. He opens the container with a snap and the smell is nostalgic, the kind of tea his grandmother would get to brew on the day to day of their little lives.

Jon isn’t sure if he ever loved his grandmother, not the way he’s fairly certain he loves Peter Lukas of all the damned people in this dreadful world. He never thought much about it, only focused on the gratitude that she took him in and invasive wandering thoughts of if she loved him. 

He’s old enough now to know she didn’t, not in the way he craved. He was a duty and was loved dutifully, despite his nature rather than for it. For so long he refused to put that to words even in his mind, as though it’d make her disdain real. Now it’s as consequential as a stray thread on his sleeve, to be plucked and thrown away.

He doesn’t love her, didn’t love her, he realizes with an astounding amount of relief. For so long he feared how loving her would hurt him and how not loving her would make him dreadful, wrong. It doesn’t matter now, it really never did if he’s honest. He never even knew her, she never knew him, and there’s no loss in that, or at least not one he can find in this moment.

He knows Peter better, and isn’t that the real problem here. Peter’s tea, the shape of his childish outlook on the world, the edge of suffering beyond his age. Stockholm syndrome but even that doesn’t ring as true as it once did. If Peter were one of his dull, hollowed out cousins would Jon care? Would he still be here or would he have taken Elias’ out the second it was given?

The kettle whistle startles him and he takes it off the burner, placed to the side as he stares down the clean metal curve of it, his own distorted image. In truth he isn’t sure what it means to love someone. He never loved his grandmother then, had no particularly close friends to find the shape of it in. Georgie? Yes, he thinks he loved Georgie, loves her even. That’s why he ran away, in the end. To protect her.

Jon laughs low, rubbing his face with a tired hand. It seems he’s very bad for the people he loves. Isolation must adore him for how he hurts them by getting too close.

A pressure on his lower back makes him jump, a turn of his head and he sees Peter smirking and leaning in. “Water’s getting cold, darling.”

“I wasn’t making it for you,” Jon mutters as he pulls at the pot. Peter laughs and Jon refuses to look at him, refuses to indulge in the need to pull that laugh apart and see the threads of its make. Has Peter laughed with any sincerity in his life, Jon wonders, or is everything truly funny to him and his bottomless pit he covers in makeshift personality?

Peter lingers as Jon finishes setting the pot to steep, stays close as Jon turns to face him even if it means being crowded against the counter. Like this Jon can make out all the faint lines of age, the crows feet and laugh lines of private jokes, the irritating way they make Peter’s face more interesting rather than stuffy and pinched like Jon’s severity does so easily. 

“Was your curiosity sated?” Peter asks him, and it takes Jon a moment to realize he means Elias. 

That realization makes him snort, a little huff of breath as he looks stubbornly up to Peter. “I have more questions than answers, which I’m sure you both enjoy. Mostly about what is even going on between you two.”

“We’re allies,” Peter says so easily, and Jon crosses his arms even if it brings them closer. 

“Allies.”

“Lovers, occasionally. We also enjoy a good bet here and there, friendly competition.”

“I couldn’t tell if you were gearing to devour each other or plant a knife in the other’s back half the time,” Jon shoots back, refusing to give ground when Peter laughs and leans in far too close.

“Where is your mind at, Jon? Imagining us ‘devouring’ each other like that.”

Jon lets out a frustrated little sound, reaches up to grasp Peter’s jaw and pull him in for a kiss. It should be to shut him up but it goes softer than he’d like too quickly, fueled by the low grade fear he’s been harboring since Moorland. A kiss to feel Peter there, safe and whole. Lord, what was wrong with him?

Peter’s hand goes to his waist, not unlike their dance in Elias’ flat, pushing Jon the very short distance back to bump into the counter. Massively uncomfortable, really, until Peter lifts him (with perhaps an undignified squawk from Jon against Peter’s lips) up onto the counter to sit. Jon nips at his bottom lip in annoyance, even if pulling back it’s so very much easier to look Peter in the eye. (To kiss him again. To shut him up.)

“You really live by the phrase ‘better to apologize than ask permission,’ don’t you?”

“Don’t you?” Peter echoes, hand a hatefully comforting weight against Jon’s waist. “Remember, we’re not all that different.”

“No wonder you married me then, your ego would love the idea of wedding yourself,” is Jon’s dry retort. Peter laughs, Peter always seems to laugh rather than get annoyed or scowl at Jon’s acid. Jon isn’t sure if it’s the most irritating thing about Peter or an aching relief.

“I’m not the one butting my curiosity up against Elias’ just to see the sparks,” Peter responds easily, too easily. It strikes Jon suddenly he keeps bringing up Elias, keeps eyeing Jon closer than he usually does, keeps lingering.

It’s shockingly easy to put the pieces together, like they simply fall into place before him, a recognizable shape. “You’re jealous.”

Peter’s brow goes high, a ripple of amusement through his eyes but Jon continues. “You don’t mind Elias and I together persay, but you don’t like that he diverts my attention from you. Lord, you are so absurd, you hate to be noticed but you still want to be the center of attention in your own way.”

“Do I now?” Peter drawls, grip just a little tighter on Jon’s waist in a telling way.

“I assume you love it when we ignore you for each other but you still hate the possibility I find him more interesting,” Jon huffs. “Am I wrong? You’re like a child with a toy you want to show off but don’t like when other people play with too long-“

His words are cut off by Peter’s lips on his, a devouring kiss that licks the rest of the sentence out of his mouth. Oh, Peter really is a good kisser, he thinks faintly as he grips Peter’s shoulders. Good enough he doesn’t recognize being shut up for what it was until the kiss breaks.

“Never learned to share,” Peter says like a breathless joke, eyes bright. He’s warm, Jon realizes, warm in a way Jon’s never felt from Peter before.

“But still you try to,” Jon points out like picking at a wound. “Is it for Elias’ sake or for me? For us? For your god?”

Peter chuckles, an exhale that brings with it a faint drip of red down his mouth. Jon frowns with stinging lips and reaches to thumb under Peter’s nose, catching a small smudge of blood underneath as his stomach twists. “You’re bleeding.”

“Hm?” Peter takes Jon’s wrist, considers his bloody thumb with a shrug. “Nosebleed. Worried about me?”

Jon’s throat goes tight, pale enough even Peter seems to notice the sudden flood of emotions. “Let go.”

Peter does, though Jon thinks purely out of surprise at the sudden shift in mood. He doesn’t care, he hops off the counter and leaves the tea behind, leaves Peter behind, scrambles to grab his shoes and coat. “Walk,” he manages. “Don’t- just clean up the tea.”

He can feel Peter’s eyes on his back as he rushes through the door.

Outside he at least feels he can breath, fingers clenched tight, blood smearing on the palm of one of his hands. He can’t deny this, can’t rely on denial to explain what happened away. He dug into Peter, carelessly and casually, just pulled apart motives and Peter… bled. Something in Peter strained and snapped, bled out onto Jon’s hand. Because Jon couldn’t let it go.

It’s a cold night, one of many, the streets eerily empty- blessedly empty, wonderfully alone. He could wander but he doesn’t, his feet know where he needs to go, the long trip through to Chelsea and Elias’ door.

The doorman doesn’t notice him but Elias does, ringing down for the confused man to let Jon up. He does, apologizing profusely for his rudeness, and soon Jon finds himself standing at Elias’ entrance, fingers still clenched too tight.

“Jon,” Elias says, calm and questioning.

Jon swallows. “I… I need your help.”

Elias says nothing as he lets him in, hand light on Jon’s back.

—

Even now Jon’s hands won’t stop shaking. The blood dried darker, brownish and flaky in the grooves of his thumb. Hardly any at all, nothing like the proverbial gallons he’s sure Peter’s spilled in his lifetime but damning all the same.

Elias moves about in the kitchen, out of Jon’s sight and leaving his guest sitting heavily on the couch. If Jon looks up he’ll see the room they all danced in, further back the table they ate at. He can still feel Peter’s large hand on his waist and wonders when Peter became so solid, if Peter meant that change or Jon’s insatiable curiosity tore the choice from him. He wonders if Peter realizes at all.

A mug is lowered into his vision, making him glance up to Elias’ composure. Even now he digs at it, can’t help but wonder what he’s thinking, why he bought these simple black mugs rather than something appropriately expensive and showy in its minimalism, if it’s all part of the act or true preference. His head spins with it and he closes his eyes as he wraps his fingers around the welcoming warmth of the ceramic.

“Coffee this late,” he murmurs, and at least the coffee is sinfully expensive. He can tell from that first sip, a taste he’s grown into and rather loathes himself for. 

Elias takes a seat on a nearby armchair, doesn’t bother with the show of a mug. “It seems you may need the boost. You’re shaken.”

“I’m a fool,” Jon corrects, pressing his fingers in tighter to enjoy the too-hot sting. “I don’t know why I’m surprised by any of this. I knew- I knew I was growing to care for Peter. I knew I wanted to know more about him. I knew what knowing is to the Lonely.”

“And yet you turned to denial,” Elias says as he sits back, gaze gratingly piercing. “Did you realize why you’ve grown so strong without feeding?”

“How do you know I don’t feed?” Jon glances over, both curious and annoyed by Elias’ thin smile.

“A man who ties himself in knots over the fate of monsters doesn’t willingly devour humans in the same breath. As delightful a contradiction as that would be, and as delightfully contrary as you are, I doubt it goes that far.”

Jon chuckles, a weak and waning sound, the little breath of it disrupting the steam from his mug. “I thought I was a know-it-all.”

“It comes with the territory,” Elias answers with a glimmer in his eyes like the glint of a knife. “Now, how do you think you’ve grown strong without feeding.”

“I don’t know… tearing myself into pieces over all this?” Jon rubs his face, pushing his mug onto the coffee table. “That’s how it was before, feeding my ‘god’ with myself.”

“Or you’ve managed to find a new source. Do you think Peter misses you when you’re gone?”

Jon’s throat tightens, a horrible thumping in his chest. He tries to swallow against it and it goes down like glass shards. “He doesn’t.”

“Do you think he mourns how you martyr yourself for people you don’t know? How you eagerly self-destruct to save faceless ‘innocents’ for your own peace of mind?”

“He doesn’t,” Jon tries, fainter this time. 

“How cruel we are, to step into the life of a creature so blissful in his solitude and force attachment. Alliances, titles, and worse still the attention he can’t help but crave.”

As Elias finishes Jon stands, sudden nervous energy. He paces to the window, ignores the ghostly specter he makes and how even the blinking stars look like eyes boring down on him. “You- you’re literally devoted to knowing. How could I possibly be destroying him this way when you’ve been in his life for so long?”

It’s a pull, almost an accusation, but Jon feels cornered and small. He turns to face Elias’ piercing grey. “You know him. Why didn’t that destroy him?”

Elias watches him a moment, composure warring with something Jon wants to tug at with his teeth. “I never gave Peter the vulnerability he needed to truly let his guard down. I assure you Jon, I’ve paid my price for knowing Peter.”

Jon doesn’t know what to make of that, isn’t given the chance as Elias smoothly continues. “This is all more denial, as I’m sure you’re aware. You came to me in hopes of an out, isn’t that right?”

“I suppose so,” Jon admits, looking back out at the city. So many empty windows, not even a light. The chill that runs down him is almost familiar now, fingers light down his spine. “And you’ve helped me every turn.”

“Because I believe you’re more suited at my Institute.” It’s the first time Elias has admitted as much, put into any context his help and ‘curiosity.’ Jon searches himself for annoyance, betrayal, something sharp and rotten, only to find quiet. 

Elias stands and Jon watches his reflection approach, so smooth and self assured. “I have no doubt Nathaniel chose you in part to keep you from me.”

“I thought you were allies.”

“Allies know just how powerful they should allow their friends to grow.” Elias stops at his side, fingers low on Jon’s back. Light, leading, until Peter and his wavering pressure. “We can guess at his reasoning all night, if you wish, but ultimately you know why you’re here. You need to make a decision. In fact I believe you’ve already made a decision.”

He’s right, Jon knows it down to his bones. It shocks him how much of a blow the thought is, the solid, undeniable fact he’s already chosen to flee the Lonely and Peter. Even now he can’t fathom why he lingered as he did, why his eyes burn like this is a loss. He has no love for the Lukas family, even his love for Peter is a strange, sadistic thing yet he feels cored- tired, so tired, like he hasn’t caught his breath since he first stepped into Moorland.

Elias pulls him closer and Jon does nothing to fight it, just presses his face to Elias’ shoulder, his fine suit. He doesn’t cry, can’t seem to but he still feels it all leak out of him, physically only in the way he breathes heavily against silk, how his grip on Elias’ shirt stretches the fabric violently.

At the very least Elias is familiar in a way he’s coming to recognize, the tilt of his head to listen to Jon’s quiet break, how he traces his heaving back in a facsimile of comfort. Curiosity. Destructive need to know.

“Help me leave,” Jon manages into Elias’ shoulder. 

“Of course, Jon,” Elias murmurs into his temple, the faintest quirk of a smile as he presses his lips there.

—

When Elias wakes in the morning his bed is empty, the other side made neatly as a hospital bed. He closes his eyes to spy a note on his kitchen counter in scratchy script, that Jon needs time but he’ll return soon, when he’s ready. 

Elias doesn’t need to make much effort to drudge up the sensations of the night before, victorious euphoria as Jon trembled in his grip, allowing himself to be led to bed. The clothes Elias let him borrow for the night were ill fitting, hung off his bony shoulders in an appealing way- or maybe Elias has always had a weakness for ownership. He still thinks back fondly on the times he slipped his tie around Peter’s neck, subtle eye designs for any who looked too close.

Unlike Peter Jon didn’t jump to carnality to distract himself, made no move other than to press into Elias’ arms and stay there. Impressive he managed to leave without Elias knowing, the way he clung the night before. So like Peter in that way, a mark from his time in the Lonely.

One of three marks already and not even an Archivist yet. Nathaniel will never know the treasure he allowed to fall into Elias’ lap.

Still, maybe he should be concerned with just how deep Isolation has spread in Jon. It wouldn’t do to lose him, not when it’s been so long since Elias has found such delight in someone else. It would do even less to get attached, he supposes, but his good mood refuses to let the thought linger. Such a victory, and he won’t even need to risk Peter’s life anymore to make his ritual a reality, unless Peter forces his hand.

Elias sits up to take his phone from the bedside table, flips through until he finds what he needs. Gertrude’s flight schedule, her return in the next two days. His fingers linger over the number to a Lightless Flame member but no, they’ve proven themselves exceptionally useless against Gertrude, even with help.

Besides, some duties require a personal touch.

—

Peter isn’t there when Jon returns, a small mercy in the merciless story they’ve spun.

As Jon walks through the apartment he tries to find signs of life, not just Peter’s but his, proof that he’s lived here for what feels a lifetime. There are no knicknacks, no photos, no stained rings from cups left without cup holders. Even the kitchen holds no smudged fingerprints, the food neatly lined up, the cups and silverware the same. Any purchase Jon made in defiance only seems to make the area look more a stage, a prop, and still some deep unpleasantness in Jon thinks _this is home_.

He chuckles, low and tired as he makes his way to the bedroom. There he finds the only sign of life he’s seen, Peter’s clothes crumpled on the floor. Jon’s throat tightens, a sharp, jabbing pain in his ribs as he sits heavily on the bed.

Who was he before this all began, he wonders. He feels he’s lost something along the way, whether it be a weakness or a strength he doesn’t know. Maybe more than anything that’s what scares him about moving forward, out of the fog and into sight, that he isn’t sure who or what he is anymore. What he’ll become.

Deep down, not even that deep, he’s curious to find out. That, at least, Jon recognizes.

He’s plating dinner when he hears the door creak, the faint thud of footstep. Two plates, even though he wasn’t sure if he’d see Peter at all in the coming days. “Get the wine glasses, will you? As much as you hate being useful.”

Jon doesn’t look up from sliding the pasta and mushrooms into place, thinks he can imagine the amusement on Peter’s face as his footsteps move away. Jon doesn’t know how he can stand it, not asking, not prying to know where Jon was. As he brings their plates to the long table Peter seems perfectly content to sit down and be served, smirking up with the same bland expression Jon first saw on his face in Moorland.

“I could get used to the househusband business. All you need is the right apron,” Peter comments and Jon snorts as he sits.

“And little else, I imagine.”

“Now you’re getting it,” Peter winks when Jon glances at him, unabashed when Jon makes sure he gets a slow, exaggerated eye roll for his trouble. 

“Come out with me tonight,” Jon says after he manages to choke down as much of his meal as he can. He’s never been an actor, a liar, never good at hiding his nerves. Maybe Peter doesn’t care about his nerves or maybe Jon has been nothing but nerves for so long Peter doesn’t notice. Maybe Peter does- so many maybes to dissect that Jon tries to shove down, like sitting on his hands to keep from picking at a wound.

Peter does at least quirk a brow at that request, mushroom speared on his fork as he points it to Jon. “Since when do you go out?”

“Do you have to make everything difficult? You took me out.”

“And you questioned me,” Peter responds. 

It’s obvious he’s enjoying riling Jon up, something Jon refuses to ever find charming even as his chest aches. “And you didn’t answer. You’re coming with me.”

“Oh, bossy now? How could I possibly say no?”

“Just finish your damn pasta.”

They don’t walk this time, taking a taxi despite Peter’s car wasting space. It’s Jon’s idea, he just wants to sit a while in the back, their sides pressing together despite the space. Sometimes Peter fidgets, in ways Jon can’t help but wonder if he’s stopping himself from pushing Jon away or pulling him closer. Both, probably, and Jon needs to look away to keep his mind clear, just focused on the faint warmth of Peter beside him.

The driver stops at a beach, empty in the late evening chill. Further down the way are bars and masses of people, bonfires and festivity despite the cold. Even before Jon would find it distasteful and does all the more so now. He tries not to think of how easy it is for the sound and sight of that distant revelry to melt away, a distant fog as he turns to Peter.

It’s not surprising to see Peter’s interest piqued, the way he breaths in the sea air deeply. “How did you grow to love the ocean so much?” Jon can’t help but ask as they move toward the railing to the beach proper, gates closing off the area and listing times of operation, prices.

“The ocean is freeing and solitary,” Peter answers and Jon nods, understanding that much at least. “And you’re the one who brought me here.”

“I grew up near the ocean,” Jon says, climbing over one of the low fences and hopping down to the sand. Peter laughs, likely thrilled by this little act of rebellion, and when Jon turns he’s followed. “I hated it during the summer, just tourists and flocks of people all being as loud and disgusting as they could manage.”

“It does marr the scenery, doesn’t it,” Peter muses, watching as Jon takes off his too expensive shoes and socks, rolls up his pant legs. He leaves the socks in his shoes and his shoes to the side, not all that concerned with thievery. Funny, he thinks, to be one of the things to be afraid of out in the night. The thought only makes him faintly ill these days.

Jon stares Peter down until he follows Jon’s example and pulls off his own shoes, nodding in approval before turning from Peter to head towards the waves. “It was fine during the night, if you didn’t get caught. I’ll admit there’s something to walking a place that feels like it should always be alive and thrumming with bodies.”

“Did you come here to admit I’m right about how much Isolation suits you?” Peter’s suddenly very close, hovering over his shoulder as the waves brush icily against Jon’s toes. Peter isn’t warm but he blocks the wind well with his bulk, almost entirely when Jon turns to him fully.

Like this Peter is beautiful in a way even Jon can appreciate. Hair windswept, the dim light making his skin ethereal instead of corpse-like, and the damning hint of intrigue in his eyes. Not soft, Jon doubts Peter is capable of softness. Softness requires a connection to the world Peter will always lack.

Jon has to pull Peter down to kiss him, hand fisted in Peter’s shirt to do so. It’s the first kiss they have outside their wedding that doesn’t start with a bite, the first Jon allows his own damning softness into. Even here it’s as much curiosity as a goodbye, drinking in the tension of Peter’s jaw before the snap, the greedy devouring of that alien feeling Peter’s been denied all his life.

It makes Jon close his eyes tight, because he really does love him despite all reason. His chest is raw with it but he doesn’t look back or prod at what ifs. In the end this cruelty is the kindest thing he can do for a creature like Peter Lukas.

“I’m leaving you behind,” he tells Peter quietly. He can feel the confusion in how Peter’s head tilts, hair brushing across Jon’s temple. When he opens his eyes Peter is watching him, breath mingling with how close they stand. “This is a goodbye.”

“A goodbye?” Peter sounds so amused but his grip tightens on Jon’s waist. “That’s cute, Jon. Where exactly will you run?”

“I’m sure you’ll figure that out quickly,” Jon answers. Before Peter can start up again Jon presses their lips together once more, swallows the response and mouths his own secret into Peter’s lips. _I love you,_ the most damning and ridiculous fact of all of this. 

A push and Peter’s gone, or maybe it’s more accurate to say Jon’s gone. He knows Peter wasn’t expecting it and in truth Jon wasn’t sure his clumsy grasp of Isolation would be enough to slip away away _away_, just getting away. It is, maybe fueled by how his chest aches, maybe by whatever Peter must be feeling now that he knows this isn’t a joke. 

Jon tries not to think about that as he walks back to his shoes, alone in the sand by the railing. He pulls them on and walks, fingers trembling until he curls them into too tight a fist to allow even a faint tremor. 

When he uncurls them he’s calm.

—

Jon’s hands don’t shake this time, not as he stands in Elias’ doorway, not as he watches Elias emerge from the bathroom to greet him, wiping his damp hands dry. There’s a spot of blood on Elias’ color, a stark red that catches Jon’s attention and loses it just as quickly. The world is too quiet right now, over ripe and soft like split fruit.

“I’m ready to be known,” he tells Elias, steady in a way he knows Elias didn’t expect. Calm.

Elias watches him a moment before he smiles, the truest expression Jon thinks he’s ever seen on his face. He holds out a hand and Jon doesn’t hesitate to take it, wonders if this is where the golden string led all this time.

“Then we’ll begin,” Elias tells him, pulling him inside and letting the door close behind him.

—

It strikes Jon that he doesn’t know how this will work too late to turn back. It isn’t unlike Moorland, led around and expected to follow, expected to endure. All this time he knew the basics, that he must be known, but by who? How?

When he asks Elias the man smiles, runs fingers over Jon’s knuckles with heartstopping gentleness. “You know the answer to that, Jon.”

“By you?” Jon guesses, though even as the words leave his mouth he knows the truth. In a way yes, Elias, but only so far as Elias is an emissary for something more.

In the end all it is is a paper. Jon thinks he should laugh as he lifts the pen, crack a joke, prod at how his signature is supposed to unlock his everything to Elias and his god.

He signs his name. _Jonathan Sims_, contracted now as Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute. Nothing feels different until he looks up, his gaze swimming. They’re in Elias’ office in his house, he’s pinned by Elias’ grey eyes. The eyes of every picture watch him, the whirls in the wood floor boards peer up at him. The large painting behind Elias’ head of a forest blooms with eyes in the knot of every tree.

Jon tries to close his eyes but he can’t, can only watch Elias smile with a fondness as sharp and dread as Peter’s. Jon imagines Peter’s large hand at his back as he shakes, a comforting phantom pressure until he’s swallowed whole.

—

“A lovely morning, isn’t it?” Elias asks. It’s rare they meet outside of the Institute or parties, bedrooms or secret places. Just a little park near the Institute instead, because Elias saw Peter lingering and felt whimsical.

Or curious. Nathaniel’s made his displeasure of Elias’ actions known but Peter hasn’t said a word about his stolen husband.

Peter hums in agreement, and my doesn’t he look better, a healthy glow to his skin and the shadows under his eyes chased away. Strong and hardy, more so than Elias has seen of him before. Heartbreak looks good on Peter, Elias decides, assuming Peter has a heart to break. Maybe he just looks best when he’s unshackled and free.

“How’s he settling in?” Peter asks blandly, giving Elias nothing to indicate his interest is anymore than fleeting. Convincing, if he wasn’t still wearing his wedding ring.

Jon wears his too still. Elias itches to know how Peter would feel about that.

“Well. The Archives suit him,” Elias answers, peeking into the cramped office Jon resides in, his back curled as he pours over a statement. “You could find out yourself. The Institute is hardly off limits.”

Peter laughs, and when Elias turns his head Peter is gone into the morning mist. It makes Elias sigh as he straightens his tie. 


	11. epilogue

It’s easy to choose to live despite the horror he contains. Jon opens his eyes and regrets it only a fleeting moment before his focus turns on remembering to breathe.

He’s a miracle, they say with smiles masking fear. Georgie isn’t afraid but her brow furrows, her fingers clench with conflicting urges. The room is bare aside from a stuffed cat she left for him, a couple of cards he skims over. Next to his bedside is a vase with a truly ludicrous number of flowers stuffed into it, all muted and white. 

Funeral flowers, he thinks with a snort as he tugs at one of the silky petals. No card, but he knows exactly who has paid to refresh them needlessly each day.

They make him jump hoops to leave but soon enough Jon’s out, wearing the clothes Georgie kindly brought and glad she avoids him. At least she fills him in on the death, the missing, the police and jail and everything he’s missed in his own death. There’s turmoil under his skin but he moves instead of thinking, locked onto one fact she shared.

The Institute is quiet for midday, and Rosie nearly jumps out of her skin when she sees him. He brushes her off, her well wishes and warnings. Mr. Lukas is busy, she says, and Jon ignores her, walks right to Elias’ old door. It’s unlocked. That surprises him somehow.

He steps in and the room is empty, empty still when Jon closes the door behind him. “I know you’re here,” he says, tone dry. His thumb presses against his wedding ring, a nervous tic he never broke out of. “I see you.”

A rumbling laugh answers him and there is Peter, sitting at Elias’ desk, smile pleasant and bland. “Hello darling. Miss me?” he asks, and Jon aches as his lips quirk.

“Not at all.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well that's finally done. i just want to thank everyone who commented, i'm really bad at answering because i get anxious as hell but please know every single one was greatly appreciated. people who comment are the lifeblood of fanfic, let's be real, y'all heroes.
> 
> just thanks in general for everything, especially prox for all the help. might do more with this universe because it's fun, but otherwise hopefully this was satisfying enough for everyone. stay safe and all that


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